Bird in Hand
by JanineMNM
Summary: Growing up in Amish country, Englisher Sookie Stackhouse figures her life will follow a quiet path. But when one ex-Amish vampire turns up, she jumps at the chance to help him, just as an Amish tragedy brings intense interest to the region. Fangs alongside suspenders and buggies? The region's only telepath has her hands full as more vampires-and the media-come knocking.
1. On the Verge

**A/N:** Italicized words related to _Pennsylvania German_ culture are described in more detail on my profile page.

All place names in this story are real, and all are located in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, with the exception of Virginville, which in RL is a bit further away, in Berks County. Otherwise, this is obviously a work of fiction. I've tried to keep the general facts about the _Amish_ straight, but please note that there is quite a bit of variability among the different _Plain_ groups, and also some variability in how they are described by researchers. When in doubt, I referred to _Amish Society_ by John A. Hostetler, which seems to be one of the most respected sources in this field.

**Disclaimer: **All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris. I'm just taking them on a tour of Amish country.

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><p><strong>Ch. 1: On the Verge<strong>

My gran often seemed to be a woman on the verge.

"Bake me a banana cake, Sookie," she'd say, pulling the big round tin of buttons out of the cupboard and prying off the lid.

I'd sink my hands deep into those cool buttons and squish them around and around between my fingers until I was good and ready to scoop them into the lid, pat them in place, and carry them to the stove. Gran's old white enameled cast iron stove hunkered along one wall all by itself, its four legs braced against the floor in a show of strength, proving to everyone that after all these years, it could still carry its own weight. With its many doors and compartments and knobs and handles and doodads so different from the stove my mama used, it seemed brand spanking new to me. I'd stash the button banana cake in a side door, my very own secret compartment.

Waiting was hard. Having set the white plastic timer, I'd fidget with Gran, impatient, until we couldn't stand it anymore, when I'd cheat and nudge the dial along toward its weak, tinny bleat. Pulling the pan out with two potholders, I'd present it to Gran with great fanfare. And I swear—every time—I truly did think she was only a moment away from eating up that button banana cake for real.

"Stop!" I'd squeal, and Gran would cackle along with me.

Or when a big storm would come through, breaking up the dull, plodding quiet of all the farmlands pressing against us, and the rain would spray itself across the tin roof of her farmhouse like buckshot from a firing squad, Gran would stand tall against the onslaught and say in her _"Dutchified" English_, "Aye, yi, yi! It's really makin' don, ain't not, Sookie?" _It's really making down (raining hard), isn't it?_

An expression of devilish amusement would open her face wide. I could imagine her emptying her cupboard of her pots and pans, as we had once done, and crashing them all together to join in the rumpus and show that she could hold her own. She had it in her, for sure, but the storm would speak well enough for her.

"Let's go blow bubbles for Buck," she'd suggest when she needed to take a break from her chores.

I'd grab the bubbles and follow her out to the barnyard along the well-traveled route. That scar of a path from the farmhouse to the barn had been trodden so many times over the years the farm had been in operation, it looked like someone had taken a big knife and sliced the ground right open. Its permanence seemed certain; no one would ever be able to alter its course, even when everything else changed. I imagined that long after the farmhouse and barn crumbled down, that path would stay put, waiting for any takers on a course to nowhere.

She and I would walk from the house, past the butcher house, alongside the failed apple orchard, underneath the walnut tree, and across the intersecting path that cut up the bank to the road, and finally out to the back of the old lumbering barn, covered entirely in white siding. When Gran and Gramps's farm had been running, the barn had stored a tractor up top and sheltered two pigs, one or two cows, and some chickens. Now it stood mostly empty, still smelling of hay and gasoline and manure. It's single adornment, an _oak leaf_ _hex sign_ painted with great flourish, had faded in the sun.

I say the barn was _mostly_ empty because Buck, my daddy's hunting dog, a black lab, had the whole thing to himself, along with some swallows that would nest in there. He usually slept in a pile of hay in the corner immediately inside the doorway on the lower level, which opened out into the barnyard. He was Jason's pet now, too big and excitable for Gran or me to release.

"_Donnerwetter_! Tie that dog loose!" Gran would shout at Jason when Buck's big, muddy paws would nearly knock her backward. But he was a gregarious dog, a disappointment to my daddy, actually, and always glad to have some attention.

Especially if we blew him bubbles.

Buck would wag his tail and gallump around the barnyard and chomp at bubbles until the soap and his slobbery drool would turn his mouth into a frothing white mess that would make Gran and me giggle. I'd imagine him a frightful, rabid beast who would charge us both, nearly reaching us with his snapping jaws, when Gran would pull Gramps's hunting rifle up to her shoulder and shoot him dead.

It was the certainty that she would actually pull that trigger when necessary that made her so impressive and redoubtable.

Uncle Bartlett learned how much Gran meant business. Once I finally got up the courage to tell her about the way he'd been touching me, she chased him away for good. Her own brother! We never saw him again. It was the first time in my life anyone, Mama and Daddy included, ever took me so seriously, and with such respect.

Yes, she had it in her.

She was on the verge the day she and I had gone out to pick strawberries in the patch alongside the house. "Copperhead!" I heard her shout, or so I thought, and then I caught an image of a snake darting within inches of her feet. Looking to her for guidance, I noticed her lips, frozen and silent, only poised to say something that neither of us had ever acknowledged out loud directly to each other. After another tense moment, she finally laughed, saying, "Ach! It's chust imachinin's, Sookie." _Just imaginings._

Gran had been thinking about the time she'd scared up a copperhead and nearly got bitten.

I had heard and seen her thoughts.

We both knew they weren't imaginings. Calling it what it actually was—my telepathy—wasn't necessary between the two of us. Somehow she and I understood each other, connected in a way that allowed it to remain unspoken, our special inside joke. Around anyone else, it was my disability. But with Gran, I liked hovering with her right there on the edge, oh so close to the tipping point. We balanced together, two beads of dew clinging to a spider's thread, only a scarce moment away from dropping or disappearing under a drying sun.

We hovered on the verge of poverty too. Had my parents been alive, they would have continued to help keep the farm going. But once they died, the burden of the hard labor that comes along with a farm was too much for Gran. She did what was practical: within a month of my parents' deaths, she called in an auctioneer.

He brought in his trailer and his podium and stage and his loudspeaker equipment. People from all walks of life came in their carriages or their _machines_ or bicycles and matted down the grass as they scanned, picked through, and evaluated the very innards of a living, breathing farm. Satisfied they had seen everything, they stood or sat in their aluminum chairs with sagging canvas straps and waited for the fast-talking auctioneer to bring up the things they coveted most. He had a long, gray beard, and thinning hair which he'd parted, slicked down, and covered up with a black baseball hat with gold lettering advertising himself: _Auchenbach Auctioneers, LLC_. Occasionally, he'd pull his red printed _schnupftuch_ from his pocket, lift his hat, and wipe the sweat from his forehead. Standing there up on that stage with his suspenders framing his rounding belly, he attacked a bucket of assorted nails with as much vim and vigor as Gramps's tractor or Gran's only set of china dishes, or the livestock from the barn.

It was all a cacophony that day. The overwhelming mash of noises from the auctioneer speaking in tongues and the chatter of the _Englisher_s jammed on top of the _Pennsylvania-German_ utterings of the Amish folk and the old _Dutchies_ sent me straight to my bedroom, where I curled up in my closet in the tightest knot I could, one I thought might never come undone. Gran waited until every last person had cleared out before she came to rouse me out of my exhausted sleep. I could feel the emptiness surrounding me—the relieving silence as well as the scavenged, hollowed out, shell of a farm that was now my home. And I heard the shouting absence of Mama and her hiccup-like pattern of thought and Daddy and his ongoing reel of moving pictures with spoken subtitles.

Gran led me to her rolltop desk and let me slide it open, verboten on most other occasions. I scrambled through all the secret drawers and cubbies that held the special items I loved most—the old toys Gran would let Jason and me play with on special occasions. They were all still there. I tested them out. An old Jacob's Ladder, grayed from the touch of so many grubby, small hands, snapped and cascaded down. There was a wooden clown that collapsed in a heap when you pushed a button on the bottom of his base. When I released the button, he still sprang back to life. My favorite was a set of men on magnetic bases who would spin when they'd sneak up on each other. The trick was to push a sneaky little man up behind the other holding an outstretched gun—as _close_ as you could get him—right outside that very point the magnetic force would spin the gun-wielding man around. "Bang! You're dead!" Jason would always shout when I pushed the little man too close.

"A bird in the hand, Sookie," was what Gran reminded me that day. _Is worth two in the bush. _

The auction brought the Amish farmers a bit closer to us. One by one, young Amish men came knocking on the farmhouse door, inquiring if Gran would re-consider selling her land, so desperate were they for space. Families had divided and subdivided the land so many times amongst themselves that they were finally being forced to either look elsewhere or develop other businesses, such as furniture making. Gran refused to sell, holding on as hard as she could to the land for its investment value.

She offered to rent the land out to them instead. I heard passing doubts in her head, wondering whether the Amish would agree to do business with an Englisher such as herself. She chased those thoughts away with sturdier ones, reminding herself that young Amish folk interacted plenty with the outside world. They sold their wooden picnic tables and Adirondack chairs and playsets in gravel lots along the highway, and they sold baked goods from stands outside their homes, and they even left their farms to work construction jobs building porches and sheds and garages and so forth for Englishers. So yes, she reasoned, the Amish farmers would do business with her.

She was right, of course. She had no trouble renting her land.

Across the road, in the field my daddy had worked with Gramps's diesel-powered tractor, an Amish family turned under the soybean crop using a horse-drawn plow. Neighbors from all over the district came in droves to help dig holes and fill them with row upon row of blueberry bushes.

Jason and I wandered up the bank toward the road, playing an aimless game of catch, mostly using it as an excuse to watch the intense flurry of activity. Women helped measure and mark off neat, regular intervals for plantings. Children pulled bushes off spring wagons and walked them out onto the field, collected bits of trash, or carried tools. There was a job for everyone. Occasionally, a little child would "escape" from the group and make his way toward the road, only to be ushered back by an older child minding him.

I couldn't help but listen in for a bit. In spite of all of the activity, the inside of their heads reminded me of a calm sky, like Gran's mind when she quilts. As they busied themselves, their minds emptied of most everything unrelated to their work. Any stray thoughts flitted through like passing clouds snagged on a gentle, steady breeze. In one of the young boys, I caught an image of myself, standing alongside the road, toeing the gravel with my worn sneakers, my bare legs sticking out the bottom of my shorts. He saw me as he saw any other Englisher, different from them, but the same as any other Englisher. I pulled out of his head.

"What are they saying? What are they saying?" Jason pestered me. He couldn't understand them because they were mostly speaking their first language, Pennsylvania German. Though most of the non-Plain folks our age never learned the language—rapidly dying—it remained a sore spot to Jason that I had picked it up. He hadn't tried hard. For me, it had been about a special connection with Gran. Plus what I never acknowledged was that hearing her _think_ in Pennsylvania German helped too.

"They're mostly talking about their work. And they said your hair's all _stroubly_." That last part was a bit of a lie. One of the girls had thought it, but only briefly, and in a flirting kind of way.

Jason's hands flew to his hair, smoothing it down at first, and then messing it up again. He gave up in disgust, walking away. Jason wasn't used to being teased, or feeling disconnected from others. He had tons of friends, collecting them effortlessly.

The kids at school were merciless with me. They poked fun at my clothes. They said I was stupid and clumsy. They called me a crybaby.

"Here, pig! Sooie, Sooie, Sooie, Sooie!" They'd chant. When the grown-ups weren't looking, they'd toss their lunch scraps at me—their crusts to their _Lebanon_ bologna sandwiches and apple cores and pretzel pieces. Somehow they'd always have enough scraps to make me cry.

Then they'd sing, "Oh! Susanna! Oh don't you cry for me." On and on. Sometimes the grown-ups would even look askance and think what an odd child I was. And sometimes I'd lose my temper and yell, "My name ain't Susanna!" which only encouraged them to laugh more. Or I'd slip and say something a little too _pertinent_ to an adult, like how Mr. Sandusky shouldn't play with Linda Dietrich's long, blond braids, and then I'd get in trouble for my _impertinence_.

"Ain't no shame in being different, Sookie," Gran would tell me. That was about as close as she'd get to acknowledging my telepathy outright. She'd wrap me up in her scrawny, but somehow all-encompassing arms. (She wasn't a weak hugger.) Then she'd lead me over to the day bed that was pushed against the kitchen wall opposite her sink and counter and would pull out her box of assorted glossy photos, the ones she'd clipped neatly from her wall calendar year after year. Exotic animals. Landscapes the likes of which we'd probably never see. Famous buildings from far-away cities. Lush tropical flowers and foliage. Eventually, I'd fall asleep with my head resting on her lap, and when I'd wake up, she was always puzzling over a word search book. She'd go through those books page by page, as neat and orderly as she kept house, never jumping ahead until each puzzle was complete. She pressed her pen so hard, I could feel the ridges on the backsides of the pages. They rattled like parchment paper when I browsed through them.

On that day the Amish neighbors planted the blueberry field, Gran came out of the house carrying the giant thermos we used to use at picnics. Surprised it hadn't gotten sold at the sale, I ran to help her.

"I thought you'd like to help me take this here lemonade over."

I relieved her of the heavy load and grabbed the bag of cups too as she trotted ahead of me, across the road, and into the fields, looking for the farmer who'd rented her land. I lagged, finding myself suddenly surrounded by a group of children and not knowing what to say.

"Wie geht's?" I stammered. _How's it going?_

The girls giggled and shuffled around each other.

I tried again. "Wie heescht du?" _What's your name?_

The older one spoke up. "Kannscht du Deitsch schwetze?" _Can you speak German?_

"Ya, gewiss." _Yes, of course_, I said somewhat defensively, though it was in no way a given. The older girl was trying to remember whether she'd ever met an Englisher her age who could speak Pennsylvania German. "Schwetscht du Englisch?"

They giggled again. "Ya, gewiss. I'm Rebeccah, and this is Katie, Mary, Susie, and Edna."

They were thinking I talked funny, but I was more of an intriguing curiosity, just like they were to me. I relaxed a bit.

"Sookie!" Gran called, striding toward me, "Why don't you help pass out some drinks?"

Rebeccah picked up the thermos and hauled it over to the open edge of a spring wagon. Together, we wandered the field, passing out cups and collecting emptied ones. After we served everyone once, we paused by the cooler again.

"Is it all yet?" Rebeccah tipped the cooler forward. "It drinks good."

"_You_ talk funny too. You sound like my Gran."

She shrugged. "Do you know Cat's Cradle?" She pulled a string from her pocket.

"Ya, gewiss," I joked with her, as our fingers flew together.

"Rebeccah!" A stern voice called from the field. "Kumme." _Come._

Her fingers flew to her pockets, tucking the string away. "Good bye! Denki!" she called as she ran off, the strings of her _Kapp_ trailing behind her. I didn't know why she was thanking me.

After that day, the Amish neighbors weren't the only people who came closer.

The tourists came too. Our neighbors working the fields with their horses drew in tourists, who drove by slowly in their fast machines, even getting out to snap photos and shoot videos. They wore t-shirts that said, "I heart Intercourse, Pennsylvania" and "I've been to Paradise, Pennsylvania," and "Blue Ball Fire Company."

They brought their nasty, uncharitable thoughts too. They ridiculed the women's dresses. They joked about the men's beards and haircuts and suspenders. They scoffed at the number of children. And they wondered how much they had sex.

Or they thought their lifestyle quaint. And remarked on how well-behaved the children were. And wished they could trade their own, harried existences for an Amish one, never considering fully the sacrifices. And they admired their devotion to God. And they wondered how much they had sex.

Or they pitied the obvious hard labor, and their lack of access to most modern technologies. And thought what a shame it was that their youth would never be educated. And they assumed the reason most people stayed was because they'd been brainwashed into thinking it was their only option. And they wondered how much they had sex.

Understanding first-hand what it was like being the brunt of such attention, I wanted to protect my neighbors from it, but in reality they didn't need me. Only I heard the full extent of what the Englishers were thinking. Plus they had each other, anyway. Though I was gradually accepted as a trusted helpmate in their blueberry field, I knew I'd never really join their group. Their lifestyle was not my own and never would be. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be woven into the fabric of a tightly-knit community, to be an integrated part of something much bigger than myself. To fit in and be accepted.

I wondered, too, how they stayed and tolerated the staid monotony of their daily lives so willingly. Within myself, I felt the maddeningly steady, eroding, drip-drop of sameness, day after day. Would the craziness building up in me burst out one day? Where would it go? Pent-up, stuck, and restless here in Lancaster County, I held little hope of ever seeing change.

After all, some things about my life simply couldn't be changed. I didn't think I'd ever be able to live in a big city, where the din of thousands of thoughts would invade my head. Any kind of school beyond high school seemed impossible. There were so many distractions in a classroom full of other students, I doubted I'd make it even _that_ far. We probably wouldn't have enough money to pay for schooling anyway.

_A bird in the hand_, I'd remind myself.

Occasionally in the summer, I'd convince my only friend Tara to ride her bike with me to the location of the Sunday church service, held every other week at a member's home, usually in their barn at this time of the year. We'd hide out until everyone had filed inside and then we'd lean up against the barn to hear the opening hymn, which sometimes lasted as long as thirty minutes.

Yes, it was wrong, but there, with my face pressed against the rough, weathered boards, I listened in on them for a hint of dissent, anything that mimicked the growing stirrings inside myself—a dripping bead of dissatisfaction on the heated brow of a disgruntled member, a tickling of wonder at the world at large, a gnawing ache of loss and longing, a bedeviling seed of rebellion against the bonds of the district's _Ordnung_, its set of rules governing its members.

But there was little of that. People don't always think about what you want them to. And in a big group, it was hard to pick through the preachings and songs and collections of different thought patterns and mix of German, Pennsylvania German, and English to find what I was seeking.

Tara would tire quickly of watching the horses battle the flies with their twitching, quivering coats and swatting tails and ears that folded and twisted every which way. Plaiting long, coarse stems of yarrow and Queen Anne's Lace and wild daisies into crowns would lose its appeal. She'd giggle and mimic the singsong pattern of the preacher's voice, rising high and then rapidly dropping at the end of each phrase.

"What is he saying?" she'd pester me.

I'd translate his sermon for her. "He's preaching that 'The wisdom of the world is foolishness with God'" (I Cor. 3:19).

By that point in the service, I'd usually gathered only meager evidence of any kind of dissatisfaction. A few people sleeping. Some young people from the _Fastnachts_ thinking about the _singing_ that night. Somebody wondering who was bringing the _birch beer_. A mama making animals out of a hand towel for her toddler. A cute bunny. It was too hard to hear them.

They all stayed by choice, at least as far as I could tell. I was aware of no one who had chosen to leave this particular community. They all went through _Rumspringa_, a period when the youth were given greater freedoms and the opportunity to decide for themselves whether to be baptized and formally join the church, committed to this lifestyle for the rest of their lives. In spite of all of the hard work and sacrifices that went along with being Amish, nothing else bested what they already had. What I _didn't _have: a place to fit in.

"The wisdom of the world is foolishness with God" (I Cor. 3:19), I'd heard the preachers repeat many times, and then a buzzing, vibrating kind of feeling would wash over me. They rejected most of the ways of the world outside of their own community.

If Gran discovered what I was doing—eavesdropping—she'd have her floral print apron untied so fast, I'd barely have time to get my backside off the ground before she snapped it in my direction. At times like this, I wished she _would_ come along and shoo me out of there before I got to wondering too hard about my own place in the world. There were things about this world that I wanted to know—like where in the devil my telepathy had come from—that I wasn't ready to let drop. And if wisdom was foolishness, then why did I seem to be built to know things I wasn't supposed to know? Did that mean I was doomed from the very start? Maybe since I seemed to be the only person on this earth who was able to know things this way, God was willing to cut me some slack. I made myself all _ferhoodled_ thinking about it.

It was usually Tara who would get me out of there.

"Sookie, do you think the rest of us are going to hell?"

"No!"

"Then let's go help your Gran put up chow chow."

Gran always had some kind of vegetable for us to chop when she was making chow chow. Corn, of course, plus green beans, peppers and onions and whatever else she wanted to use up. Once she'd mix everything with mustard and sugar and vinegar and put it on her stove, the kitchen filled with a scent so stringent our eyes watered. It was the only time it was okay for all three of us to cry at once.

I liked sharing Gran. I didn't consider Gran a possession that was mine to give, but the way Tara eagerly fit into our fold reminded me of how lucky I was to be able to have and share the love of my grandmother. And with Tara included, our numbers grew.

Eventually, Gran would send us outside.

Sometimes we'd head over to the north end of the property, once a small pasture cut in half lengthwise by a spring-fed _crick_, now invaded by "those cussed multi-flar (multi-flower) roses," as Gran called them. She'd threatened to mow them all down herself, and on many occasions, I'd accidentally caught her thinking about riding on a fantastic beast of a machine that chewed them all up with its sharp, gnashing, metal blades. Gran never pictured herself younger or prettier in her own mind, and she'd watch herself, dressed in her work overalls and straw hat, expertly operating levers as she drove that machine straight over the tangled, thorny mass. This image usually lasted for only a flash before it was followed by a softer view of Gramps—dressed in a white tank style undershirt and khaki work trousers—digging holes and planting a hedge of young rose bushes in dewed, unnaturally green grass, with morning mist lifting around him. I knew enough about thought patterns to not linger for that view much longer.

But the old pasture was the perfect place to play _Sleeping Beauty_. Tara and I were both fascinated by the idea that an evil spell could put someone to sleep, but neither of us wanted to play the boring part of the sleeping princess. So usually, playing _Sleeping Beauty_ meant the two of us hacking our way through the flowered, thorny bushes until we reached the crick, where we'd lift rocks and look for salamanders.

On other days, we'd head to the east side of the property, where Gramps's other failed project, an apple orchard, still clung to the rocky slope. When Gramps had finally given up hope that his orchard would ever produce more than a few measly, hard, sour apples, he didn't have the heart or energy to clear out the trees. Eventually, many of the apple trees died, replaced mostly by birch and ash trees that grew tall and spindly, fighting for the sunlight. There were a few apple trees that held on, still bearing fruit that would give up and drop well before they'd ever ripen.

The paths that wandered through the old orchard had been established by deer. Tara and I had plans of drawing a map of all of these paths and the treasures we'd find. One section of pathway was so densely shaded and damp that it was lined with an entire carpet of moss. We'd stop to lie on it and measure whether it had grown bigger. There was the three-trunked tree, too, which held enough water in its gulley—no matter how dry it got—to host a collection of squirming mosquito larvae that repulsed us and drew us in at once. Down below, in the unforgiving shade and poor soil, a few determined plants managed to survive. In the spring, we'd hunt for trillium, careful not to tread on the delicate, white flowers. Later in the early summer, we'd occasionally find a few tenacious raspberries on a gangly stalk.

We'd started our map project many times with the idea that "this time we were definitely going to finish it," but usually we'd get distracted by something else. We'd snap off a birch branch to chew and climb an apple tree. Every now and then, Jason would show up, tossing fallen walnuts at us. Tara and I would retaliate by hurling the meanest, greenest apples we could find.

And so, life went on its mostly staid course. The blueberry bushes grew taller than I, even as I sprouted up—and out, too—and occasionally I joined my Amish neighbors out in the fields through all the seasons of pruning and mulching and picking and fertilizing. I muddled my way through school. The teasing let up a bit as we all grew up and I got better at working the hard, constant job of blocking out everyone's thoughts. I joined the softball league. I had my first disastrous kiss, and then a whole string of them, before deciding that dating wasn't in the cards for me, at least not for a while. I graduated from high school and branched out, further away from home, working a quick succession of jobs that didn't stick, until finding one that lasted—at the Virginville Tavern—which seemed too cruel to be true. (I sorely hoped I wouldn't be living up to its name forever.) But working there kept me busy and gave me lots of practice overcoming my disability. I even made a few new friends.

One sad day, Amish neighbors from all over the district swarmed the home of our neighbor, the farmer who'd planted the blueberry field, after he'd suddenly died. The waves of sadness and love and concern mixed with surprising jolts of fear and anger and roiling conflict felt like nothing that had ever come out of their community. It nearly bowled me over in a way I hadn't experienced since that day of the auction; part of me wanted to head back to my closet. I wandered around the house aimlessly, looking for a cleaning chore, until Gran finally pulled me into the kitchen and set me to work helping her bake _shoofly pies_, more pies than we'd ever baked. There at her big, old-fashioned farmer's table, I methodically rolled out crust after crust, while Gran scooped and measured and mixed. Eventually, in the presence of her calm sky mind, I hefted and tugged up that barrier that blocked out the turmoil. I worried I'd never be able to relax near my neighbors again.

They returned to the blueberry field—picked up the pieces, and filled in the gaps—helping the widow and her children keep their farm going. Their community demanded that no one be left to struggle or suffer alone. For the time being, I kept my barrier locked solid out of respect for their privacy and for my own sanity, which made me tired out in the fields with them. In any case, work at the tavern drew me more and more away from home.

Things went along that way for quite some time.

There were the occasional jolts of change, spiking the flat line that drew us from day to day—an accident with a horse and buggy, a particularly dry summer, an unruly tourist who needed to be subdued by the local law enforcement, some unusually rowdy Amish _gang_ activity by the _Hexenmeisters_ from over in Paradise, an infestation of Japanese beetles out in the blueberry field, talk of major land development by unknown investors in Intercourse.

Every now and then, the helicopters swept through, flying low over the corn fields, presumably searching for marijuana amongst the stalks.

"Did they catch anything, Sookie?" Gran asked, flirting dangerously close to asking me to use my imagining. We laughed about what fool in his right mind would try to sneak a marijuana plant in an Amish cornfield, so carefully tended by hand that any offending _weed _would get pulled before it was knee-high. And then we laughed even harder about what fool in his right mind would spend money searching for stray marijuana plants in Amish country.

That sobered us up a bit, actually, and made us wonder.

But nothing prepared us for the night the vampires came out of their coffins, enabled by the discovery of a synthetic blood substitute on which they could survive without depending on human blood.

"Imagine, Sookie! Vampires!" I understood Gran was using the word 'imagine' in its usual way, but in her shivering excitement, she vividly projected an image of Bela Lugosi. I managed to duck out as she was reaching to touch his fangs.

That night I thought the world finally had opened up, and there would be a sudden and fundamental shift in my life. In fact, I went to work the next evening thinking I was going to see my very first vampire.

Oh, there was plenty of talk about vampires that night and for a long time to come. "They're just regular humans who caught a virus." DeeAnne, Jason's prospect of the evening, had swept her hair off her neck and was holding it pinned to the top of her head as she blathered on about vampire lore. Jason sneezed dramatically in her direction, which made her squeal in feigned horror.

I walked away, disgusted. That _Dummkopf_ could snot all over a woman and she'd drop her panties at his feet.

By the end of the evening, I'd suffered through a whole heap of idiotic human shenanigans, bad jokes, posturing, and drunken speculations about my presumed innocence and vampires' attractions to virgins...but no vampires. Discouraged and thoroughly mortified, I still talked with my boss Sam about stocking up on the new synthetic blood.

He did. It went bad.

In fact, _two years_ went by with not even a single sighting. The closest I got to a vampire was the tourist who showed up at the blueberry patch wearing a t-shirt from a new vampire bar called Fangtasia. "Vampires do it better in Intercourse," the t-shirt read. I wanted to run up and ask him all kinds of questions, but he was decidedly more intrigued by the humans in front of him, wondering what kinds of closures the men used on their trousers, and imagining various unsavory uses for their suspenders.

Picking through the mind of a tourist for vampire news and hearing his wanton fantasies about Amish men, I wondered at that moment whether I'd hit rock bottom. _This_ was the closest I was gonna get to a vampire? The vampires had turned out to be a tease, it seemed, rather ordinary beings with not much bark or bite. Or whatever. If life wasn't going to get any more interesting for me, I decided, I should should probably stop waiting for the action and make do with what I already had.

It was the theme of my life: _A bird in the hand..._

I liked my job and Sam. He was a transplant from the south who probably had no business trying to open up a tavern advertising Pennsylvania Dutch food. But he was good to me, keeping me on staff—no questions asked—when even the drunks called me "Crazy Sookie." _Ab im Kopp_. Off in the head. I helped him out with the local traditions and the language and hiring someone who could cook regional food well. He called me "cher," which seemed exotic to me. I liked his red-gold hair.

And his tight body.

But he was my boss.

I went back to work on my next shift with my nose to the grindstone. Keeping my job was attainable.

I was still in this focus-on-work mode months later, when a quiet noise from outside, followed by the swiping glow of a flashlight, drew me out of my bed to the window.

"Sookie," a voice called in a loud stage whisper.

"Who's there?" I could see a man's figure hidden largely by the bushes. Opening my mind to him, I found for the first time in my life a blank space, not the staticky fuzz of someone who doesn't broadcast well, but a plain old blank space, like a hole. I poked again, harder, and felt…nothing.

"Don't be alarmed. It's one of your neighbors. May I come in?"

_One of my neighbors? _I started to reach for my robe. "Yes, of course you may come in. I'll be right there."

Here in rural Pennsylvania, in the middle of Amish farms, Gran and I rarely locked our doors. Even burglaries were uncommon. I stepped through a small vestibule-like area outside my bedroom and bathroom and then out into the living room, where I paused to think for a moment. I figured it strange he hadn't identified himself by name since I knew nearly every Amish family in the district. Shining a flashlight in someone's window wasn't uncommon, as it was a courting practice for the men to show up at his girl's window, but I hardly doubted any Amish man was coming to court me.

I was in the middle of reassuring myself that no one who intended to do any harm would announce himself, when suddenly a strong set of cool arms wrapped tightly around me, pinning my hands and arms against my body, as a hand clamped across my mouth. Struggling, I realized right away that I couldn't budge one inch.

Though my heart was beating up the insides of my chest, I forced myself to calm down enough to assess and think. I noticed he had strong, lean arms, a muscular chest, and hard, calloused hands. He smelled of the earth, with a hint of manure.

Yes, he had to be an Amish farmer. It was the only thing keeping me from panicking completely.

"Be quiet. I won't hurt you. " he said forcefully. "You know me. Look at me."

For someone I knew who had no intention of hurting me, he sure wasn't being a very polite guest. A please wouldn't hurt. He leaned his face forward enough so I could see him. He was looking at me with great concentration, as though he were trying to _make_ me remember his face.

He _did_ look familiar. Only he couldn't possibly be...

"You know me, and you know I won't hurt you," he reiterated intently.

I looked again. This man was so pale, he practically glowed. Clearly he hadn't seen a field under a hot sun in a while. His thick, dark hair was cut in the very distinct style of Amish men, though it was brushed back in a different way, and his face was shaved smooth. Amish men never shaved their beards. Yes, it was the smooth shave that was tripping me up.

Not to mention the fact that he was the spitting image of the Amish farmer who had died years ago.

No wonder he was glowing.

A sudden surge of pure anger pulsed through me as I realized that life was in the middle of dealing me yet another blow. Jesus Christ, Shepherd of Judea, if my disability was making me see ghosts now, I would…well…that _would_ be my luck, wouldn't it? Having the ghost of a dead Amishman following me and telling me all about the ways I was sinning, and how knowledge of the world was foolishness in the eyes of God. I'd die a virgin. Or maybe I'd be the first woman to die from prolonged virginity.

And speaking of disability, where the hell _was_ my disability? The original one that had made my twenty-five years of life a living hell? Why wasn't my fucking disability working when I needed it? He was even touching me—if that's what you could call this capture—which usually gave me a reception that was _too_ loud and clear.

Actually, when I considered it carefully, he felt solid and real, sure signs he wasn't a ghost. Plus—thinking this predicament through even more—I knew that Amishmen weren't evangelical, so I doubted he'd be staying to proselytize.

There was hope for me yet.

"I want to let you go. I don't mean to scare you. I've only come to ask you a simple favor. Don't scream and scare your grandmother. For your safety too." He twisted my head toward his face again, which I didn't appreciate too much. "You know me. Don't. Scream." His nostrils flared.

He released me and immediately stepped back as I sprang away, in the only direction I could, toward a window. He was blocking the rear exit and the curtained doorway out to the kitchen and the front door. I considered jumping out the window, even knowing that on this side of the house, the ground sloped down, and I'd be headed for a long fall. Then I realized I couldn't leave Gran here with an Amishman in the house.

Make that an Amishman who I thought had died years ago.

Maybe I could reason with him using scripture, but that would require quite a bit of brain power, and all that was coming to me was the Lord's Prayer. Only seeing him here, looking more English than Amish, I questioned whether the Lord's Prayer might be a bit of a sore subject. I decided to recite it to myself. _Unser Fodder, dar duh bischt im Himmel…_

I trailed off in my own head. He was still standing there, not making any threatening movements toward me, looking tense, but docile too without all of that facial hair.

"Your beard," I blurted out.

His face twisted slightly. "It's gone."

"It's actually you?"

"Yes."

"The same man who planted all those blueberry bushes in my Gran's field."

"Yes."

"You're not dead."

He held his arms out in a here-I-am gesture.

I was still here too—standing in front of a man I thought had died—but still here nevertheless.

I laughed nervously as the adrenaline in my body started to crash. I felt relieved—giddy—to be alive and in one piece, unharmed. Relieved I couldn't see ghosts.

Only, he was still standing there looking at me expectantly. What I was supposed to do now? "So, watcha been up to for the past few years?" somehow didn't seem appropriate.

"You're alive," I prompted, laughing again nervously. "You scared me. Next time, don't grab me." I rubbed at my arms. And it was then that I noticed that he was, indeed, glowing slightly.

_Glowing_.

_And pale._

_And strong._

_And cool to the touch._

I couldn't see ghosts. I could see _undead people_.

_Vampires!_

"You're a..." I stepped toward him, reaching for him. I figured since he'd touched me, it was okay to touch him back.

He held motionless as his fangs slid down.

"...vampire!"

My hand finally reached his cool arm. I shivered not from the chill, but with excitement.

"Oh! I really _can't_ hear you," I blurted out.

"I didn't say anything."

Boldly, I reached out with my other hand to touch his other arm. The silence was deafening, like a hole had been blown out in front of me, splitting my eardrums too.

It was lovely.

I laughed again, with crazy delight, and felt like skipping in circles around him.

Imagine! A vampire! A quiet vampire! In my home!

Good heavens! How do you properly host a vampire in your home? "May I get you anything?"

_Something to drink? _I laughed more.

Only then I was hit with another thought—a terrible one—that this...vampire in front of me was once a living, breathing Amish farmer, devoted to God and his community, and that maybe my gleeful delight was insulting him. I almost asked, "Are you okay?" when I noticed that the uncommitted expression on his face had started to turn into a smile. And when I started to laugh hesitantly again, he broke out a full, fangy grin.

"I knew I could come to you, Sookie."

"Bill Compton!" I exclaimed, still coming to terms with this person—I mean, vampire—in front of me, after all those years of waiting. I laughed at the absurdity. Never in a thousand years did I think I'd be standing there, in Gran's living room, in Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, wondering how to graciously host an Amishman-turned-vampire.

Yes, standing there with the vampire Bill, I felt like I had finally tipped over the edge without Gran.

Little did I understand how much I was still hovering.

On the verge.

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><p><strong>~Thanks for reading!~<strong>

**A/N**: Unbeta'd. Thanks to zairre for helping me with some German translations and understanding dialect differences.

Thanks to makesmyheadspin for her early comments on a vastly different version of this story.

And thanks to peppermintyrose, sociologist & SVM expert. ;)


	2. Over the Edge

**A/N: **Hi folks. I know it's been a while since I started this story, but I promise it hasn't escaped my attention. I've been writing ahead and reading a lot, which, I admit, has taken me along a lot of meandering paths, including a little side trip through the thick of PA Amish countryside. Thanks to Mr. MNM for driving and getting us "lost" so I could lean my head out the window like a very happy dog, enjoying the fresh air, peace & quiet, and beauty of rolling farmlands.

At any rate, here's the next chapter. Since the links on FFN have been disabled, I've moved all of the background info to livejournal, but I will continue to post the story here (and try to ramble only there). Hope you enjoy...**  
><strong>

**Disclaimer:** The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this endeavor, except by having fun with her hard & talented work.

**Ongoing thanks** to peppermintyrose for her advice and help with this story and for her insightful livejournal posts, which have given me plenty of ideas about the SVM universe. Thanks also to my chatty & friendly connection with the Amish universe. ;)

**Oh, and one other thing...**the town _Honey Creek_ that I refer to in this chapter does not exist in Lancaster County_. _And, of course, this is a work of fiction.

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><p><strong>Over the Edge<strong>

"Ach!" Gran exclaimed, setting in front of me a "proper" breakfast: two _dippy ecks_ with a side of _scrapple_ and toast. Then, clutching a fist in the middle of her chest, she said, "I've got it something wonderful." I wondered whether she'd been eating too many of her own proper breakfasts.

My bleary eyes met hers, cloudy and milky opaque with age, but sharp as ever. "Did they _get_?" she asked, stopping her motions, devoting her full attention to my answer.

"Yes, thank you. Perfect, as always, Gran." The corner of my toast pierced the yolk, spilling onto my plate for sopping up. "Have you eaten?"

"Oh, I'm fine." She sat at her spot, at the head of the large farm table, closest to the stove, just as I'd imagined she'd done forever. Formal meals still happened like clockwork around here. It would have been easy for us to slide into an open-up-a-can-of-soup-and-make-a-sandwich mentality, but Gran kept feeding us as though we were our own best company. She still rolled out her own _pot pie_ noodles, thick and meaty and neat and square. "Now it's us girls," she'd say occasionally, once our plates were set before us, and that would be her nice way of prompting me to converse, to fill the silence with spoken words.

There was no doubt a lot of room to fill at that big farmer's table. Plenty of people had come and gone. Grandpa Mitchell. My parents. Aunt Linda. My cousin Hadley was missing. Jason had moved out. She'd talked once about buying a smaller table, but had quickly decided against it. "Where would I work?"

"Right," I'd agreed. "It's your main counter space." And even though we constantly pushed chairs aside to work freely at the table, we always returned them to their positions, ready to welcome a guest.

Once or twice a week, Jason would join us. Jason wasn't a big guy in stature, but he took up more than his share at the table, his legs and arms sprawled out, claiming. It seemed like cheating to me, an illusion of limbs and angles, making himself look bigger than he actually was. I wished he'd contain himself better. I wished that trick would work for me too.

"Sookie?"

"Hmm?" I reached for Gran's homemade apple butter.

"I asked whether you slept okay?"

"Yes, ma'am." I worked fastidiously on covering every bit of my scrapple with the spread. "How was your night?"

"I slept fine until about midnight or so, myself. And then on and off for a few hours."

"Was your heartburn bothering you?"

"No." It was a simple answer, one word, said without reproach.

And then that was all.

Outside, a car passed. My fork clinked on the diner plate, substantial and sturdy. Gran's coffee mug thudded quietly on the tabletop. All of these ordinary sounds were scant distraction from the weighted silence between us. Right there, sitting immediately before Gran, I felt that first degree of separation from her. Lying would be even harder than I'd imagined.

I would have told her about him if he hadn't asked for my silence. She would have been excited. She would have giggled with me about the adventures I'd had last night, whispering in the dark with a vampire. Here in my own home! He'd come for me specifically. For _my_ help.

"I can't be seen," he'd said. "No one can discover I've been here." He'd had those moments of apparent deep concentration, impressing upon me the urgency of his request. I'd nearly giggled at the intensity.

And then he'd relaxed, once he'd seen I wasn't running anywhere.

"_You really aren't afraid?"_

"_No. Not now that you've let me go."_

"_Most people would have run."_

"_I'm not most people." It was probably the first time I needed to prove that particular point. "Besides, I know you." I'd worked in the fields next to him. Chatted and laughed with his family and neighbors. Shared food with them. Spilled tears over his death._

_He grimaced slightly. "You know the man I once was."_

_I didn't think it would do any good to venture down the what's-the-same-and-what's-different path, like one of Gran's puzzles where you circle the differences between two pictures. Fangs here. No fangs there. _

_I sidestepped him. "I reckon if you were planning to do anything bad to me, you would have done it already." At least that's what I hoped. _

_He seemed to be considering. "And you're willing to help me?"_

"_It depends on what you want me to do." _

_I surprised him, I gathered by his pause. Though his expression changed little, the tilt of his head made his brow appear to arch higher. Bill's face had settled in a way that might have been arranged that way forever. As an Amish man, he'd looked old-fashioned. As a vampire, he was ancient. With his beard gone and his hair brushed back, the classic features of his face stood out prominently, from the hard, straight line of his nose, to his sculpted lips, to his high cheekbones. _

_And then finally he laughed, rumbly and so deep and low that it was easier to feel than hear. I wondered what inside joke I'd missed._

"_Sarah never married. At least not while I was…here."_

"_I remember her." His sister had been part of the family, helping with children and tending to the fields and all of the other endless chores. _

_He nodded. "My wife re-married sometime during the second year after I left. And then at some point afterward, Sarah left. She married a widower over in Honey Creek with nine children."_

_I noticed that he mentioned his wife in a cursory manner, on the way to telling me about his sister. It seemed to me that he was primarily concerned about his sister, though his reasons weren't clear. Having nine children was a lot, but certainly not unusual for an Amish family. Seven was about average. _

_He continued. "Sarah works part-time at the fabric store in Paradise and sets up her own craft table at the farmer's market once a week. She'll be there tomorrow."_

"_Tomorrow? I work during the day." I had a feeling he was working up to asking me to see her._

"_Yes. She'll be there until late. The indoor section doesn't close until 9."_

"_You want me to find her?"_

"_I'd like you to commission a quilt from her. I will pay for it, of course, but she mustn't know the money is coming from me."_

"_All right…," I said, not in agreement, but by way of consideration. Was this about money? The folks out in the Honey Creek community struggled more. They lived isolated from other districts in the settlement, and I'd heard they'd had a lot of trouble with an unusual inherited disorder that tended to run in Amish communities. _

"_It's imperative she not know the money is coming from me. You understand?"_

_I'd gathered he didn't want to be outed to his family. Maybe I should have shown more patience, but his condescending tone plucked a nerve attuned to such jangling. "I don't know what you've heard about me, but I'm not stupid, and I don't take orders." _

_Especially when I wasn't working._

"_You're different." He squinted a bit, looking me in the eyes, as though he could force me to come in more clearly to him. Others were often trying to figure me out, usually missing the correct answer because it was too far outside of their world. Their antenna wouldn't ever pick up my wavelength._

"_Boo!" I wanted to say. I'd freaked out enough people in my lifetime, but I doubted I could scare a vampire. Still, I wanted to make one thing clear to him, which might scare him well enough. "I'm not obedient like an Amish woman." I meant it not as an evaluation or judgment, but as a simple fact. _

_If Bill was bothered, he didn't show it. "What do you ask in return?" he asked simply, in business mode._

_His question stumped me and left me flustered. "Oh, no. That's not what I meant. I'm not helping you because you're telling me what to do or to ask anything in return. I'm just…willing to help. You were my neighbor…" I didn't think I'd need to explain. Wasn't that what Amish folks did? Help their neighbors in need?_

_By his conspicuous silence, I gathered he was stumped too. "It's all right. I expect to do a favor in return," he finally responded, stumping me right back. We seemed to be passing it back and forth. Would I insult him by refusing? _

"_We'll settle up later," I finally offered, vaguely. "I can see your sister tomorrow after work." I'd have to make sure my tables were in good order before my shift ended so I wasn't late leaving, but if I quit on time, I'd be able to do it. _

_He seemed satisfied with that plan and didn't offer any other details. I guessed it wasn't my business why he wanted to help her and that he would have told me if it were something I needed to know. I wasn't about to press him for anything personal that might dredge up unhappy feelings. _

"Sookie?" Gran looked up from her paper.

"Hmm?"

"Do you know this girl Maudette Pickens?"

"Sure. She was in my class. Sometimes I see her at the PennSupreme. Why?"

"There's a mention in here that she's missing."

"Really? For how long?"

"It's unclear because she worked the midnight shift four nights ago and then didn't turn up missing until two nights later, when she was due to work again. No one really knows whether she ever made it home in between shifts."

I considered bland Maudette and my impression of her as someone who simply went along with the flow. She might have been gone for as long as 48 hours before anyone noticed she was missing, a sobering thought.

Gran shuffled her paper again. "Looks like Greg Aubert is chairing the 100th Jack Frost parade."

"Oh?" Jack Frost was a huge annual event, bringing in over ten thousand people along its two-mile course.

"Mm-hmm. And this year for the anniversary there are special events. Hay rides. Pumpkin catapulting. A celebrity look-alike contest. Baking contests. Whoopie pie eating contest…" She trailed off before folding the paper closed. "And Jason knew her?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Maudette. Jason knew her?"

"Yes." It was _my_ one-word answer. Gran wouldn't ask anything more.

I stood up with my plate and pointed to her coffee mug. "Are you done?"

She didn't seem ready, but reluctantly slid it over to me.

"I shouldn't have had even one cup." She pressed again at her chest.

"Do you have any more of that natural remedy you were using?"

"Slippery elm." She shook her head. "It's _all_."

"I'll pick up some more for you today. I'll just swing by the farmer's market after work."

And so it was settled. As I set to doing the dishes, I realized with some disquiet I'd come up with a valid reason for a trip to the farmer's market with no trouble at all.

\/ \/

Work went quickly, buoyed by the spring in my step that gained in strength, thanks to my little secret. Someone had counted on me to do something important for him. Somehow, I felt a part of the club even if I wasn't a member.

By the time I left Merlotte's and drove to the farmers' market in Intercourse, the sky had deepened to a navy blue. Outdoors, under the cover of a pavilion, sturdy wooden tables had been derailed from their neat and orderly line, now wobbly, crooked, and sadly unadorned. Only hours ago, these tables had been full of colorful seasonal wares. Apples. Apple butter. Lettuces and swiss chard. Squash. Pumpkins. Fall gardening plants. Dried cornstalks. Bittersweet. Tonight, the glow of the sparse bulbs dangling from the rafters drew attention to the dingy emptiness and well-trampled trash underfoot. Surprisingly, the lingering scent of manure eased the gloom.

I wandered into the main indoor building, a squat cinderblock structure with a cement floor that had acquired, over the years, a number of wings and annexes. During the day, during its busiest time, this place could look rather confusing, with the crowds and mishmash of vendors, but there really was an order to it, apparent now with only a few lingering customers. Down the center, a butcher shop held the main position, with a long bank of glass counters displaying refrigerated items such as freshly-butchered meats, lunchmeats, ring bologna, red beet eggs, souse, and pepper cabbage, as well as hot items such as potato filling, chicken pot pie, and chicken corn noodle soup. Two other smaller vendors, a Pennsylvania-German bakery and a penny candy business, extended down the center beyond the butcher. (If I had time, I'd stop by for some sticky buns later.) Two aisles flanked both sides of the center business, along which a wide variety of businesses sold goods ranging from leather belts and watches to handmade birdhouses.

Country Herbals occupied a space immediately opposite the main entrance, large enough to be entered as a separate contained store, with a set of center shelves loaded with plastic clamshell packs full of _all kinds_ of herbs and powders. Additional shelves lined the far wall, and at both ends, pegboard displays with hooks displayed bagged items.

Somewhere in all of these mystery herbs was a package of slippery elm. I didn't need to wonder too long before a man wearing a blue Country Herbals vest approached me. "May I help you find something?" Grinning ebulliently, he looked young and fresh, with smooth-shaven cheeks betraying no hint of a beard, even at this late hour of the day. That feature combined with his neatly-cut, short chestnut brown hair gave him a boy-next-door appearance.

And he was a broadcaster.

A loud one.

_I'm Amos!_ He was practically shouting in his head, completing his introduction. I took an instant to fortify myself, and as I did, he spoke. "I'm Amos." The effect was bizarre, reverberating like we were standing in the middle of a stadium headlining a pro-wrestling act. As I concentrated, my crazy grin yanked into place, which made Amos smile some more.

"Hi, I'm Sookie. Yes, I'm looking for something." Soon I would catch my new equilibrium, but until then, I was having a hard time thinking clearly. "I'm looking for a remedy for heartburn."

"Aloe vera juice? Marshmallow root tea?" Amos had started rummaging around on the shelves.

"I don't think so. It's for my grandmother. Poplar?" I remembered it was the name of a tree.

"Oh! Slippery elm!" He pointed at me, projecting an image of my grandmother—or maybe it was someone else—with an extra thick head of white hair and quite a few years of wrinkles erased from her face. "Are you Adele's granddaughter?" He didn't let me answer before he continued. "I remember her. She was here with her friend…Margaret?"

"Maxine," I corrected.

"Say…she didn't finish all of that did she? Has she been to the doctor?"

"She's fine," I said, more sharply than I intended, still working to shut the steel plates of my mind to Amos's blitz. Gran had been to the doctor only in the past week, and had gotten her stamp of good health, save for the acid reflux and arthritis that slowed her down.

He gave me a quick, hesitant glance, but clearly his thoughts were already racing ahead. He'd continued rummaging around on his shelves, wondering whether he'd given Gran a weak batch. And then suddenly an image of his father, a stern and imposing-looking Amish man, hovered over both of us, and Amos started thinking in a mix of Pennsylvania German and English. Amos hadn't been baptized into the Amish community, leaving home at age 18 without looking back, an unusual feat for someone making that particular choice.

"Ah," he finally said aloud, echoing. He beamed and held out a small clam pack. "But tell her not to use as much. A little oughta go a long way."

I took the pack from him and moved quickly toward the checkout counter, ready to break from Amos's intensity. "I'll tell her. Thank you. How much do I owe you?" I grinned hard, feeling the strain of holding up those steel plates blocking his thoughts from my head.

"6.99. Trust me. That's a good deal."

Amos didn't give up easily and couldn't seem to take any hints. I nodded again and fumbled for the cash in my wallet. Darting out the door, a "denki" escaped from my mouth before I realized what I was saying.

"Hey!" I heard him call, but he didn't follow.

I really wanted a sticky bun.

Sarah's booth was located along one of the long sides of the building, about midway back, not too far from the belt and watch vendor. She'd hung a large, beautiful quilt along the back wall, and on her front counter, she'd set up a display of seasonal crafts—placemats and table runners, wall hangings, stuffed pumpkins and such. She was standing outside her booth, starting to pack these items when I approached.

I had just introduced myself to Sarah when I couldn't help but notice the sauntering form of a very tall figure, moving in our direction. He wore a tight black t-shirt with one word on it. _Come_.

He was a vampire.

I knew from his glow and the lovely silence that floated with him, carrying him along in a bubble. His thick blond hair brushed the top of his broad, solid shoulders. He looked right back at me intently.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

Sarah must have been curious about what was distracting me, because she turned quickly to see the vampire too. He ignored her, still holding my gaze, and then nodded, his face opening up with a small, but overtly confident smile...

…complete with fangs descending.


	3. Things that Go Bump in the Night

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

**A/N:** I posted two snapshots of Lancaster County farmlands, along with a bit about Amish farming, at janinemnm . livejournal . com.

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><p><strong>Things That Go Bump In the Night <strong>

The dew on the grass made for a slippery descent down the bank and dampened my sneakers and ankles. Gran had turned the security lights on, blasting out into the barnyard. On a normal night, the long shadows would stamp dark and heavy on the landscape, but tonight, the glowing moon softened and smudged them. Fattened up and sluggish, it bulged low in the sky, gathering strength to heave its arc.

The barn door was ajar, which made me wonder whether Bill was waiting, but I decided to check on Gran first. She often stayed awake, or at least kept her bedroom light on until I arrived home, even on nights when I worked late. I found her there tonight as usual, propped up in her bed. She'd plaited her hair in two thick pigtails, which hinted at the young girl she'd once been. She was arranged in bed primly, with copious pillows stacked behind her, and her covers smoothed neatly, as though she'd sneaked her tiny body underneath them. Her lace-trimmed nightgown with its long sleeves was always tied properly, with a bow at her neck. Asleep, her face would slacken harshly and sink in on itself, _duddlich_, clear evidence of all the effort she put into holding her normal day face in place. She and I were alike in that respect, only she'd been able to pull it off with much more panache; she never looked crazy, like I did.

I liked finding Gran awake. She'd always greet me with a bright, mischievous smile curled with a hint of hope that something exciting had happened to ruffle our world. Once or twice I'd caught a mental glimpse of us jumping on that bed. It had happened so briefly, I honestly didn't know whether she'd thought it or I had.

"Watcha reading, Gran?"

"Beverly Lewis." She shrugged. "How was work?"

"Fine. I got out of there in time to run to the market afterward."

"Thank you, dear."

"And you'll never guess what I saw."

"What's that?" Her face came alive with hope.

I paused a moment for effect. "A vampire!"

Immediately, she leaned forward, her book falling to her side. "Good gracious! For real?"

"Yes. He stood about ten feet from me."

"Oh! Did he have fangs?" She giggled and clasped her hands together, like she was praying.

"He did."

"Was he wearing a cape?"

"No." I laughed. "Ordinary clothes. A black t-shirt and jeans."

"Were you scared?"

The truth was, even though he had smiled, he had scared me, but there was no need to frighten her over it. "No. It was real quick. One minute he was there, and then the next, he was gone, just like that."

"_Vas in der Velt? _ After all these years, you run into a vampire at the farmer's market. What do you suppose he was doing there?"

"I don't know, but he was wearing one of those big buckles like the belt man sells."

"Ooh!" she cackled. "I suppose even vampires need to hold their pants up. May I come with you next time?"

"Sure." I kissed her goodnight, telling her I'd put the slippery elm by the sink.

"Thank you, dear. That Amos is an interesting fellow, don't you think?"

"Yes, Gran." _Interesting_ was an accurate word, I'd have to agree. "Gude Nacht." As I normally did, I outened the lights for her.

Once outside again, I followed the path toward the barn. "Bill?" I said quietly, approaching the door, still ajar. Quiet scuttling noises replied. An animal, I presumed. When Buck had lived in here, we rarely had trouble with unwelcome animals, but he'd been gone almost ten years, long enough for raccoons, groundhogs, and skunks to be an occasional nuisance.

The scuttling noises sounded again, this time from the back of the barn, deep and dark. I stared there, willing my eyes to adjust, willing the familiar shape of posts and beams to emerge out of the wedged-in darkness. Knowing the barn and all of its uneven spots on the floor, I pressed forward, stepping outside the reach of the fat, lopsided moon and into the old air, still clasping summer heat.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. More.

Toeing the packed floor, I felt for its landmarks—the pebbled, rough patch; the slight mound straight forward; the dip to the right, just before the first post. In the unyielding darkness, distances skewed. Uncertain whether I'd overshot that first post, I reached out, and feeling nothing, leaned forward.

Nothing still.

Another step.

Nope.

Beneath me, the hard earth gave away no clues. Quietly, I pressed with my feet again with no luck. Reaching out, I startled myself when my palm finally grazed against the splintery column. My heart pounding, there was no holding back memories of all of those childhood stories about things that go bump in the night. Trouble was, since the vampires had come out, those stories had been reawakened and given new life.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Hello?" The barn gulped away my voice whole, ready for seconds.

Silence. Even the scuttling had stopped.

Nothing.

_There was nothing here_, I told myself. _Just a rodent or two and my active imagination. _

I forced a laugh to prove it and turned to follow the slat of moonlight out the door at a reasonable pace, strolling casually. _Walk, don't run, to the nearest exit. _I pulled the barn door closed tightly, making sure it latched. Maybe Bill had been here earlier and I'd missed him.

Outside in the barnyard, I breathed deeply and gave a nod of gratitude to the moon. I felt much better here in its cool light than in the darkness, no matter what anybody said about it. Local folks liked to believe the full moon brings out the crazies.

"My sister's friend works over there in the emergency room in Lancaster," Rene Lenier had said one day at the bar, holding court with my brother and his coworkers Dago and Hoyt, as well as Arlene, his ex-wife. "She says their waiting room always fills up on a full moon. Accidents. Druggies." He lowered his voice. "People who ain't right." He shot a knowing look around the table and made a swirling motion with his finger near his ear, the universal crazy symbol I knew well.

Even once or twice I'd caught Detective Andy Bellefleur wondering on the day of a full moon whether he'd have any trouble from Wernersville State Hospital, the local inpatient psychiatric facility, or as Andy called it, the _loony bin._ He thought about the time a young man had escaped and stolen money from his mother's home. Or the night he'd found a man out on pass wandering disoriented along Route 222. I'd wanted to ask Andy about all the times he'd had a call from Wernersville when it _wasn't_ a full moon.

"I swear Sam puts me on the night schedule of a full moon just to _make_ me go crazy," Arlene would complain every time. "The drunks are drunker and louder and don't tip. And you and me…we get stuck with it every time. Come to think of it…" she brought her voice down to a stage whisper, about as much discretion as she could muster. "Terry's usually here too. What the hell is Sam thinking putting Terry behind the bar every full moon? You know?" Her hands full with a loaded tray, she made a rolling eye motion, another universal crazy symbol I knew well.

"Sam trusts him," I retorted, with more impatience in my voice than I'd intended. I was glad Sam gave Terry a fair shake. And personally, I hadn't noticed any patterns to Terry's problems. His ups and downs had seemed pretty random from my perspective, though I'd worked extra hard to stay out of his head.

She'd colored, her flush blooming on her neck and on the V of flesh exposed by her t-shirt. Her face, uncannily, masked by a layer of makeup, had remained unaltered. "Oh, sweetie, you don't think that I think that you're…you know…"

At least she'd refrained from rolling her eyes again.

I'd walked away from her. I considered Arlene a friend. Friends weren't perfect, and this was simply one of those times.

Walking toward the house, I noticed the swiping glow from Bill's flashlight emerging to my right, out of the old apple orchard. One moment, it was flickering through the branches, and the next, it was at my feet. I jumped and let out a yelp.

"I used the flashlight. I thought you saw me coming."

"I did. But you were there. And now you're here." Vampire speed, I guessed. Normally I liked the unexpected, but the dark barn had put me on edge.

"I'll try to remember next time." He tucked his flashlight in his coat and made a big show of putting his hands in his pockets. The slightly self-effacing gesture was so lighthearted, I nearly reached to link my arm in his. Though I stopped myself, it didn't escape his notice. "You're different," he said to me once again.

It felt like a rebuff. "I'm the same I've always been," I snapped back, without thinking, immediately appalled by my own words.

But if he was offended, he hid it well. He stepped closer, so close I could feel his silence enveloping me. After a whole lifetime of fending off pummeling thoughts from all directions, his silence seemed more important than anything else at that moment. Something I'd given up all hope of ever experiencing was happening right here in front of me, an impossibility becoming possible.

He leaned in closer still, close enough that if he were breathing, I'd feel the stir of air on my cheek. Enthralled, and more than a little curious, I dropped my guard completely, allowing the rigid metal plates in my head to simply slide away like slips of paper. My own breathing loosened and relaxed. He didn't pull back.

_Lieber Gott, _this vampire could work a miracle.

I was right in the middle of all of that wonderfully soothing and relaxing silence when I noticed a shakeup stirring alongside. My long-neglected hormones had picked up on a new game in town, and at this rate, they soon weren't going to take 'no' for an answer. Bill would be in danger of being knocked down by my heaving bosom. It was time to do the responsible thing. It was time for the business portion of tonight's agenda.

I forced myself to break the silence, my quavering voice sounding out. "I talked to Sarah."

That got his attention well enough and switched up the mood. He pulled back abruptly.

"She accepted my bid. I gave her the cash down payment." I dug in my pocket for the receipt and handed it to him.

He glanced at it without accepting it.

"It's okay?"

He nodded. "You keep the receipts."

"All right. I just wanted you to see I paid her all the money you gave me. I picked out a design. She's going to work up a couple color schemes for me and I'll return to pick one out."

He nodded again. "How does she seem?"

Here's where I didn't exactly know how to proceed. "She seemed fine." Sarah had fit the typical image of an Amish woman, one I probably wouldn't have noticed among the many others had I not known her. Her striking feature was her thick, lustrous hair, pulled back and pinned at the nape of her neck, barely contained beneath her _Kapp._ Seeing her had been somewhat startling, reminding me of how Bill used to look, of the changes that had and hadn't happened in his vampire body. She'd aged a little, with fine wrinkles and freckles appearing on her tanned face. She looked a bit plumper too, as though she hadn't been spending as much time in the fields out there in Honey Creek. I'd noticed the shape of her eyes, like Bill's, only now, his seemed so dark they looked black, set against the pure whites of his eyes and the steady pallor of his face, unflushing. Sarah also had a bright expression that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't imagine on Bill's face. Animated and alive.

Plus I'd been able to hear some of her thoughts.

"She seemed happy to have the business. She remembered me. We chatted a bit about Gran. And she told me when she moved and got married. A bit about her new family, too." I hedged here, uncertain about how much he'd want to know. There'd been some news about one of Bill's children, too, and some talk of his wife. His _ex-_wife.

As though he could hear my thoughts, he asked, "How are the children?"

"They're all well." I paused for a moment. "And there's chatter of a lot of celery growing in the garden."

For the first time, he responded with excitement. "Celery!"

I nodded, smiling, happy to bring him good news. Celery was such an important part of the wedding celebration that an abundance of it in the garden was a juicy bit of gossip for the Amish grapevine. Couples tended to be very private about their courtship, formally announcing—publishing—their intent to marry only weeks before the big day. But often there were clues beforehand, celery being a big one.

"Tom's getting married!" He paused. "It's too early to publish, but soon." The marriage season always occurred after the harvest, roughly from late October to early December.

I waited for him to absorb this news fully. If he had any other questions, he kept them to himself as he re-focused on Sarah. "Good. So no problems. She accepted." He seemed genuinely happy and settled, but I thought I shouldn't let it rest.

"There's more you should probably know."

"What's that?" he asked, a hint of alarm creeping in his even tone.

"When I was talking to her, the strangest thing happened. Another vampire came up to us. He appeared suddenly, smiled, and then was gone in the next second."

Bill grabbed my arm. His fingers didn't dig in harshly, but I immediately knew he wouldn't release me until he was ready. "Who was he?"

"I don't know." Deliberately, I looked down at my arm. Tugging would be futile.

He let go and stepped back, as take and possess warred with give and release. Bill seemed to be straddling two very different worlds here—his vampire life and his old Amish ways.

"What did he look like?"

"Very tall. Long blond hair. Blue eyes. Handsome…Scary. He was wearing a t-shirt that simply said 'Come.'"

His face registered surprise. "What did he say?"

"Nothing. He smiled. Showed some fang. And then he was gone."

"He said nothing."

"No. Do you know this man?" Er, vampire.

He ignored the question. "And you've never seen him before?"

"No! Never in my life." I didn't know why I needed to defend myself.

"What did Sarah say?"

"Nothing! She seemed as surprised as I was."

"Sookie, this makes no sense. Did he follow you there?"

"No. He couldn't have. I arrived immediately after sunset. I stopped by the herbal remedy store first." It really wasn't any of his business, but I felt like I needed to say it to prove myself. "Maybe he was shopping. Where do vampires shop?"

Bill ignored this last bit. "And she didn't say anything to you about him?"

"No!" _Not out loud anyway._

Bill leaned in again, though unlike earlier this evening, his posture was tense, and his gaze steadfast. He'd acted that way last night, when he'd nearly made me giggle.

"What are you doing?" I felt like swatting him away.

He held steady, giving me that heebie-jeebie kind of feeling you get when someone tries to get too close too fast, remarkably different from only moments earlier.

"Stop that!"

He pulled away, looking thoroughly baffled. "You're different."

That made for three times he'd said it. I blew out a puff of air, exasperated. I was there again, at that spot where I found myself needing to explain myself—either by way of a flimsy excuse that would patch things up temporarily, long enough for the friendship to die a painful, creeping death. Or by way of honesty, which could wig him out immediately. With a vampire, I figured I stood a decent chance. It might be the only thing that could keep him here, believing I was on his side, and I desperately wanted that. Truth be told, I wanted more of his lovely silence.

"Sookie?"

"All right, listen. I know for a fact that Sarah had never seen that vampire before in her life. She didn't say it out loud, but I heard her. I heard her thoughts." I let this sink in before continuing. "I'm a telepath."

He stood a bit straighter, but wasn't retreating. Maybe inside he was reciting the vampire code of conduct, or whatever a vampire might focus on to keep someone out of his thoughts.

"I can't hear _you_," I added quickly. "It seems like all vampires are big blanks to me. I couldn't hear the big blond one, either."

He paused, I presumed to consider, or maybe to think something hideous to test me. After another moment, he asked, "But you could hear _her_? Her thoughts?"

"Yes. She was frightened of the vampire and wondered what he was doing there." _And she took pity on his soul._ But I wasn't going to say that. I would lie about that with no compunction. That was news I did not want to deliver.

"There was something else too." In for a penny, in for a pound. "She was thinking about the Hexenmeisters. You know them?"

"The gang?"

"Mm-hmm. Seeing the vampire must have reminded her she'd heard they were planning a night out at the vampire bar. The one in Intercourse?"

His posture relaxed immediately, though it seemed not in relief but in grim resignation. "I know it well," he said, and then he was silent for a long time. I waited with him as patiently as I could, after a while feeling quite human in my need to plunk down, or at least shift.

Finally he spoke. "It'll mean trouble if they show up there. Do you know when?"

I shook my head. People don't always think things straight up like that. "There must be some interest in the music or something like that?" Again, that bit had been unclear, but it seemed to make sense to Bill, who quickly noted, "A vampire band plays there occasionally."

That made sense to me, then, too. If there was one thing Amish kids enjoyed, it was music. Often, they gathered on Sunday nights to sing religious songs, but sometimes the more adventurous gangs organized big concerts in their fields and barns with popular local bands.

"I can't be seen," he added abruptly. "I have…permission to be here, in the area, but I can't be seen."

I considered this news. He'd had to get some sort of go-ahead to be here, from whom I didn't know. What I _did_ know, from the media, was that the vampires were making a big deal out of their reliance on the relatively new synthetic blood. After centuries of living in secret, they were now trying to live side-by-side with humans, to be accepted as part of mainstream culture. So far, they'd been somewhat successful, but I could imagine exactly how the general community would respond if it discovered the vampires had claimed one of its Amish members.

I felt foolish for not having already recognized the broad scope of his need for privacy. And though I didn't fully understand what kind of trouble might come of the Amish kids showing up at the vampire bar to hear a band, I trusted Bill's concern about it. "I'll help however I can," I told him.

"You _are_ different."

"So you've said."

"You have a gift."

I shrugged. At times like this, I could feel the hurt—all the teasing and loneliness—deep in my bones. It couldn't be cast off like an old, ratty coat. A gift? I sure didn't think so. But who was I to argue with him about what's a gift? Maybe he'd rather be a telepath than a vampire.

Maybe. And that was the loveliest thing—I didn't know what he was thinking. His buttressed silence surrounded me in a solid mass. Again, I marveled that not the faintest hint of a stray thought broke through.

I decided I would be bold with him. Who knew when I'd ever get the chance again? "May I touch you?"

He held still, which I took as a yes. A moment of panic tripped me briefly as I floundered over where to touch, my inexperience rearing, and then shoving my fears aside—and not willing to miss this chance—I reached out with both hands, to touch my palms to the most intimate space I dared, on his cool, smooth, sculpted cheeks. Never in my life had I been able to do that with anyone else, not even Gran, who took to cheerful singing in her head whenever we hugged. I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, plunging headlong into the thickness of his quiet. He held so still that eventually I had to open my eyes to check to see I wasn't touching the form of a statue. He was watching me carefully.

I pulled my hands off of him abruptly, afraid I'd over-extended my welcome, self-conscious once again. "Goodnight, Bill." I turned immediately to walk away, a little dazed, a little exhilarated, and a little overwhelmed. The carved path showed me the way. Stumbling along in its groove, I realized that was me going bump in the night.


	4. Welcome to Fangtasia

**Disclaimer:** The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard, talented work.

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><p><strong>Welcome to Fangtasia<strong>

Two nights later, Bill and I had discovered, the vampire band was playing at Fangtasia.

"I'm going out with friends after work tonight, Gran," I told her, and immediately felt guilty when she lit up inside with excitement and hope.

On the outside, she hid it well. "I know you'll be responsible, dear," she said, ever mindful of the trouble young people could stir up when they "ran around." "And I know a young man who has intentions of courting you will come by for proper introductions sooner rather than later."

My age being 26, and this being the 21st century, Gran's less-than-subtle hinting went well beyond her purview, but I loved her too much to cause a fuss about it. "Of course," I answered, kissing her on the cheek. I hated leading her to believe that something could come of tonight, though I admitted I was a little excited about it too, just to be able to peek inside Fangtasia. But going to a vampire bar to stave off trouble between rambunctious Amish kids and the local color was hardly the stuff of romantic dreams.

So I bit my tongue to keep from saying anything else. I could either let her have her hopes, or further complicate the mess by telling her something like, "I'm just meeting Tara at the movies," which would have dragged another person into my lies.

\/ \/

As soon as my shift at Virginville ended, I dashed to the bathroom to make a quick change into my new dress. "Trust me," Tara had said, when she'd shown me the simple red sheath on sale in her store. She was right. When I'd stepped out of the dressing room to twirl a bit, feeling very feminine for sure, she'd commented, "Mm-hmm. See what I mean? You'd put curves on a ruler."

At the moment, though, my enhanced boobs and hips were thwarting plans to make an easy exit out of the tavern. I threw a hoodie over the look, checked to see if the coast was clear, and promptly ran straight into Sam in the hallway.

"Night, cher," came out of his mouth automatically, and then catching an eyeful, he stopped. "Whoa. You, uh, heading out?"

By "heading out," Sam didn't mean heading out of the tavern, but heading out _to_ somewhere else. I kept moving, which felt rude, but spared us all from lying. "Yep. Running late. Have a good night!"

Once in the car, I undid the two French braids I'd put in before work when my hair was damp and shook out the loose waves with my fingers. Then I spent a few minutes amping up my makeup for an evening look, adding some eyeliner, a bit of eye shadow, and freshening my mascara, lipstick and blush. Of course I would have preferred to do some more proper primping, but I had to hand it to myself that in a pinch, I'd managed to pull it off all right. I was in the process of blotting my lipstick when a soft rap at the window startled me. "Ah!" I squeaked, and looked to find Lafayette's grinning face at my level. He blew me a kiss and then sauntered off, cigarette in hand.

Crap. Soon the whole tavern would know.

\/ \/

The drive to Intercourse took about thirty minutes, plenty of time for contemplating. More than once I wondered exactly what I was doing.

"_Did you run around a lot as a teen?" Bill asked._

"_Me?" I laughed. "No, not really. It wasn't the same for me." When your whole world narrows, leaves you with only one aging caretaker to count on, rebellion is more frightening than exciting. "Every now and then I'd skip out on a chore or two, but Gran nipped it in the bud PDQ. Tara and I got into some small stuff here and there, too." Plus it wasn't like the party invitations were rolling in. "How about you?"_

"_I was a Fastnacht," Bill said, as though that explained his entire youth._

_I took a chance and teased him a bit. "You were in the wild gang that wore their suspenders in a twist?"_

_He nodded, smiling wryly. "But that wasn't all. I kept some reading material stuffed under my mattress." He paused for effect. "Legion of Super Heroes. Teen Titans. X-Men." He was poking fun of himself in a way that was not at all unattractive._

_I laughed. Emboldened, I said, "I used to listen in for that kind of thing."_

"_On me?" He looked at me uncertainly, and I reacted quickly to correct him. _

"_No, no. Not you specifically, though I liked to hang out in your field when there were a lot of people there. I envied you."_

"_You wanted to join the Amish?" By his tone, he might as well have shouted "Dumb idea," and though I'd never seriously considered it, I still felt criticized. _

_Crazy Sookie. I wouldn't tell him how lonely I'd felt, and now I was in the strange position of having to begrudgingly explain what had attracted me to his community. "No, I didn't want to join, but I liked the idea of a close-knit group." _

"_Ja vell, we had that in spades. No matter was private. Everybody knew everybody else's business." He rolled his eyes and slouched, assuming more human mannerisms. Obviously I'd struck a nerve._

_I thought about that carefully. It occurred to me that my admiration of his Amish life ran parallel to his admiration of my telepathy. Maybe we were even. Maybe, only I didn't wholly buy the idea that he was ready to reject his old community lock, stock, and barrel, and it would be a bad idea for me to jump on the Amish-bashing bandwagon. He seemed to want to talk about it, though. "I can imagine you'd want some privacy." _

"_You have no idea." He shook his head, and then immediately launched into a story about the pony cart he'd kept for his children. "It had balloon tires. No tubes in them, so they weren't inflatable. Just round. You understand?" _

_Not knowing much about tires, I didn't quite see the difference, but I nodded in any case, making a note to ask Jason about it later._

"_Ja vell, one day, the ministers showed up at my house, saying that some people were talking about my pony cart with balloon tires." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, adding, "Sell is nix as Baeffzes." Piffling talk. "I told them, 'They're not inflatable tires.' They weren't against our Ordnung. I suggested we let everyone know that the tires didn't have tubes. And they said that would be a good idea, but reminded me how important it is that everyone stay put and depend on each other and not go running all over creation. The way they talked, they made it sound like having balloon tires on a pony cart was only one step from automobiles. Made it out like I was putting the community at risk of falling apart."_

_He'd said so much, I half expected Bill to take a deep breath. _

"'Ich hab nix dagege_,' I told them, of course. How could I object? I obeyed the church leaders, and got rid of the balloon tires." He paused and then added bitterly, "Even made a confession to everyone that I'd lapsed."_

_I figured that was a big enough deal that if Bill hadn't complied and confessed, he could have been shunned until he did._

"_But it wasn't truly against the Ordnung. There was nothing about balloon tires. Of course, they added it at the next members' meeting." He quieted for a moment, and I let the silence fall between us. _

"_Didn't you hear any of that? No rebellion?"_

_I hesitated a moment before deciding it would be best to simply be truthful. "No, not much. Maybe because it was too hard to catch it with my telepathy." Sometimes I wondered whether I'd really wanted to hear it. _

"_It wasn't all bad," Bill acknowledged, backpeddling a bit._

_I nodded. _

"_I should have done a little more venturing during Rumspringa." _

_Again I nodded, not in agreement, but just to let him know I'd heard. Clearly Bill was saying he'd missed out on something. _

"_I wished I had travelled more. Seen a bit of the world." _

_Having never been on a plane myself, I'd had that particular thought myself, though it sounded to me as though Bill was saying something else, bound with a deeper layer of regret. I thought he would go on, but he ended his discussion abruptly. "I want to stop the Hexenmeisters."_

_Whoa. I knew he'd been concerned, but still he surprised me with his about face, in one moment wishing he'd taken more liberties and in the next, wanting to put more restrictions on others. _

"_It's not safe for them there," he explained. Fangtasia is a danger magnet. Someone's going to get hurt. And the temptations are too great."_

_He'd just said a whole world of rationale for exploring, but I rubbed my forehead, thinking instead about logistics. "What are we talking about here? Two kids? Ten? Twenty?" Some of the gangs had more than a hundred members, though they tended to break up into smaller groups called buddy bunches. Still, it seemed like he was talking about casting an impossibly wide net._

"_Maybe a few. Maybe a lot," he acknowledged. "They'll probably have good fake IDs." _

_I guessed he was right. I wouldn't put it past the Amish kids, especially the Hexenmeisters, to have those kinds of resources._

"_So let's say the fake IDs are really good and they get past the bouncer. What then?"_

_He looked at me with a blank expression on his face and waited. And that's when I fully realized what he was asking. _

"_You want **me** to go to a vampire bar to put a damper on Rumspringa?" I could hardly imagine myself walking up to a complete stranger in someone else's bar and telling them to leave. The idea was crazy. So crazy, it suddenly occurred to me that Bill had already made some plans. "You've talked about this with someone else, haven't you?"_

_Bill nodded, almost imperceptibly. "You help identify them, and one of the owners will escort them out. No harm, no foul."_

_I thought about that. An Amish kid harmed at a vampire bar would surely be bad publicity. Frankly, we were doing the owners a favor, too. Still, I didn't know if it was up to us—or rather me—to get involved. Unless…_

"_Wait a minute. Do they know…"_

"_No," he said emphatically. "I told them nothing of your telepathy. Only that you can speak Pennsylvania German and know the community well enough to pick them out of a crowd." _

_He'd stretched it a bit. If the Hexenmeisters showed up in regular street clothes—which they surely would—there'd be no "Kiss me, I'm Amish" bumper sticker emblazoned across their foreheads. But I supposed no one else would have to know my method. I could simply claim I'd seen them out in the fields, or whatever._

"_There's something else you should know," Bill added, looking uncomfortable, like he was suffering from a mild case of indigestion. "You've already met one of the owners."_

_Given that I'd crossed paths with only two vampires in my entire life, it was a simple process of elimination. "The vampire from the farmer's market." _

_The one who'd bared his fangs at me. _

"_His name is Eric, and he's one of the oldest things around."_

_Bill's frank description made him sound older than old. "Older than the hills," Gran had sometimes said with a giggle, oddly out of place in this case because it might be true. Maybe Eric had walked the earth centuries before modern times, so difficult to believe I couldn't even imagine it. _

_I'd have to settle for something more mundane instead. "Do you know what was he doing at the farmer's market?" _

"_Other business," Bill said vaguely and dismissively enough that I knew not to pry._

_We sat together in silence for a few moments while I gathered my thoughts. Hadn't this sort of thing been what I'd been craving all along? A chance for excitement. A chance to do something different. I'd get to spend a night inside a vampire bar. _

_Using my telepathy._

_A brief moment of panic tripped me up as I thought of myself sending out my other sense, scanning the crowd. _

"_I don't know if I can do this, Bill. My telepathy doesn't always work in ways I want. People don't always think on cue. Some don't broadcast well. Sometimes I can't figure out who's thinking what. Sometimes, especially in crowds, the voices come through in a jumbled mess. There can be a lot of glitches."_

"_Will you try? It would mean a lot to me."_

_That's when I knew I would. _

\/ \/_  
><em>

The parking lot immediately in front of Fangtasia looked to be about half full when I arrived. The other businesses, which formed an "L" shape, were closed for the evening, their lights darkened and the sidewalks quiet, with no shoppers or lingerers. The rest of the parking lot was deserted too. I imagined that during the day, this space looked the opposite—busy and vibrant everywhere else but here.

Near me in the parking lot, a handful of other patrons were either lingering by their cars or heading toward the entrance, marked by a red neon sign that read "Fangtasia" in fancy script lettering. Otherwise, it would have been difficult to know exactly what kind of business occupied the windowless space adjacent to a ToysRUs, wasting no time gearing up for Halloween. The dimmed lights in the toy store displayed SpongeBob, Darth Vader, a Disney princess, a werewolf, and a generic panda costume in the front window, alongside a pyramid of plastic jack-o-lanterns.

I cast my other sense out, scanning for any activity I might miss with my eyes or ears. There was a couple hanging out in a car not too far from mine having a tense discussion and one vampire behind me, at the opposite edge of the "L," who was staying put, for now anyway. I wondered whether that was his position for the night as vampire parking lot monitor. He was hard to see—hidden by a heavy duty construction dumpster—but I could sense his void.

The air was a bit chilly for a late summer evening, so I grabbed the fancy shawl I'd brought and carefully arranged it across my shoulders. I'd parked as close to the bar as I could, but in my high heels, the walk to the entrance felt like a mile. My sudden case of nerves didn't help matters.

As I approached, several other patrons beat me to the door and were greeted by a blonde vampire whose makeup and flowing, filmy dress screamed _Costume!,_ like something out of the toy store window next to her. I guessed it appealed to the crowd, both identifying her as _Vampire! _and also playing up to expectations in a way that was just scary enough. I wondered. She carded about half of the patrons and reminded one in particular that there was to be no donating on the premises.

With my turn up next, I took a step forward and smiled. "Hello."

"Your ID?" she responded.

I was grateful I'd brought my evening purse, small enough to force me to bring only my needed items—ID, lipstick, a few folded bills, a debit card, and so forth—which meant I wouldn't have to do any embarrassing digging.

"Sookie Stackhouse," she said.

I smiled. "Yes, that's me."

Her bored expression didn't change as she returned my ID. "Welcome to Fangtasia."

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><p><strong>AN: **The description of the pony cart wheels comes from _Ben's Wayne_, by Levi Miller (1989).


	5. The Bar with a Bite

**Disclaimer:** The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I am not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard & talented work.

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><p><strong>The Bar with a Bite<strong>

Inside Fangtasia, the neat and orderly bar seemed to be licking its chops, eager to _fress_. An evenly-spaced smattering of vampires had apparently taken up their starting positions. The humans circulated as close as they dared. There were the early bird special touristy types, dressed in khakis, cotton knit shirts, and sneakers, who might have just stepped off a horse-and-buggy tour to take a gander at the region's other growing population. After their vacation, they'd post photos showing _two women riding scooters_ and _horse and buggy on Rte. 222_ and _roadside vegetable stand with children_. "They don't like having their pictures taken," they'd say, but would post them anyway. This evening, a few of them were dying to add a vampire to their Amish country vacation photo album, though personal photography was strictly prohibited according to the signs on the walls. I doubted vampires would be as willing as the Amish to turn the other cheek to that offense.

Other folks—I'd call them the early-worm-gets-the-bird type—were digging around for a different kind of excitement. Two of them were dancing on the edge of an otherwise empty floor, clearly less interested in each other, and more interested in who might be watching. They'd dressed for the part, with exaggerated black eye makeup, wildly gelled hair, multiple body piercings and tattoos, and tight, skimpy black clothes with lots of hooks and zippers. Amongst all of this diversity, vampires included, I didn't know exactly where I fit.

A long bar ran along one side, to the right of the front entry, and to the left of the entry, across the front wall, a counter lit-up by a cold bluish-white light displayed kitschy souvenirs, including key chains, beer glasses, coasters, and refrigerator magnets. "Fangtasia of Intercourse: One Stop from Paradise," a t-shirt read. Presiding over all of it was a life-size cardboard cutout of a shirtless Eric, baring muscles, fangs, and that overtly confident, disdainful look. The three-quarter view of his body managed to showcase _all _of his assets, front and rear, nicely filling out his jeans. Apparently his image sold, judging from the group of varied customers purchasing a Vampires of Fangtasia calendar with his picture gracing the front. There were postcards too, in a metal carousel perched atop the glass counter. Observing it all, I realized Sam's "Virginville Tavern, est. 1840" t-shirts were small potatoes in comparison.

At a quick glance, I didn't notice Bill, but hadn't expected to, hoping instead that he'd be waiting where he'd planned, in an office at the back of the business. "Check in at the bar," Bill had said. "A vampire named Long Shadow will be expecting you." I took a seat at the far short end, facing the entrance.

The bartender placed a coaster in front of me. "You must be Sookie."

"Lucky guess," I said, feeling both grateful and uncomfortable that he'd placed me so quickly.

"I _am_ lucky, beautiful woman," he replied, the thin line of his mouth opening into a smile that showed a hint of fang. His long dark hair fell lankly about his face.

_Creepy_, I thought, but intent on starting out right, I pulled a smile out of nowhere. "You must be Long Shadow. Pleased to meet you." Remembering Bill's advice about greeting vampires, I bent my head.

"This might be your lucky night too," he persisted, adding to my unease. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Rum and Coke," I answered, quickly. I could use a drink, but then I'd switch to straight soda for the rest of the night. As he set to fixing my drink, I glanced at a nearby patron dressed in all black: black jeans, black faded t-shirt, and plain black leather jacket. I would have called him entirely uncreative had it not been for his stretched earlobe, sporting a hole the size of a buggy wheel. _Not Amish, _I decided. As I marveled over it, wondering how long it had taken him to gauge such a big hole and what it looked like when he took the jewelry out—did his ears hang low?—I accidentally slipped into his thoughts. He was admiring Long Shadow's glossy hair with fixed interest, fantasizing about how it would feel brushing against his thighs while he…_Whoops._ I grabbed for the drink.

Long Shadow apparently was very curious about my reaction. "Everything okay, there, beautiful woman?"

I smiled again, managing an uncreative, "Just fine, thank you." I'd been preparing myself mentally for this, but thinking about it ahead of time and actually experiencing it were two very different things. I'd need to be more careful. I was still giving myself a pep talk when I noticed the first two enter the bar.

Sidekicks.

Sidekicks were same-sex best friends in the Amish world, buddies who did things together within the larger gang network. These two sidekicks strolled into Fangtasia primed for a good night. Their fake IDs had worked, they could see the vampire band was starting to set up, and they were feeling pretty sporty in their new off-the-rack clothes: dark-wash jeans, collared shirts left untucked, and sneakers. They were broadcasting excitement.

Oh, sure, they tried to play it cool. They didn't do anything as drastic as giving each other a high five, though one of them thought it, probably the same one with a barely stifled grin.

As they headed to the bar, I carefully caught Long Shadow's eye, signaling him to card them. The whole time I could hear them thinking "No problem. Piece of cake." Holding the cards up to the light, Long Shadow raised a skeptical eyebrow as if to say, "Looks good to me," but I shook my head as slightly as I could.

"Sorry, fellas. Looks like I'm gonna have to keep these for my collection." He tossed them in a basket on the far counter.

There was astonishment on their faces, and a dash of fear spiking too. For a moment they actually stared back in disbelief, and one of them started to protest, at least in his mind. That would be pretty bold, I figured, and in the brief moment that they hesitated, Long Shadow ratcheted up his menace. Even I was afraid for them, not entirely certain that he was bluffing. For already not the first time that night, I worried the night would end badly for someone.

But the stare down didn't last long. Something about their posture relaxed into less confrontation and more defeat, and at that, Long Shadow pointed to the side door. He watched carefully until the door closed behind them. Not far behind them two more young men followed, apparently ready to cry _Uncle_ at the first sign of trouble. _Four for the price of two. _It didn't escape Long Shadow's notice, and may have helped put a dash to his skepticism.

"Explain," he said simply, his shoulders and arms flexed as he leaned across the bar.

I'd come up with a whole bunch of possible explanations in my head on my drive here, but fortunately, in this case, I didn't need to use them. One of the boys had thought of his correct address while on the way to reciting to himself his falsified one.

"One of them lives on a farm a few miles from my house. He has four brothers and two sisters." I neglected to tell him his real name and address. He seemed satisfied.

A short while later, the blonde bouncer came by to confer with Long Shadow. He handed her the two fake IDs, which she took with her as she disappeared down the hallway at the back of the room. Afterward, she might have snagged a few at the door, while Long Shadow and I caught two more pairs in similar fashion to the first set of sidekicks as well as a singleton who'd thought he was being tricky.

And then, just as business was picking up its pace, the pairs of Hexenmeisters sidling up to the bar stopped. Maybe word had gotten out. In general, there were fewer touristy types and more regulars, people whom Long Shadow knew. A red-headed woman named Trudi Pfeiffer with a tongue piercing and dramatic black lips came by to flirt. She was a student from Kutztown University, I discovered, though she hadn't declared her major yet and had failed Bio 101. She was thinking about dropping another class and picking up more hours at Best Buy. I might have enjoyed talking out loud with Trudi, but then I wouldn't have been able to watch out for Hexenmeisters. Otherwise, the crowd had become tougher and tougher, with lots of ugly, mean-spirited, and downright disgusting thoughts. After years of trying to keep my telepathy contained, opening it up had left me prone to everything, which did nothing to boost my mood. In fact, the more I listened, the surlier I found myself growing; I was feeling quite at one with Long Shadow.

The night continued to drag on as the crowd grew. I was listening to random thoughts wash over me when a distinct voice tuned in. "Stupid blonde whore." The sentiment wasn't unlike anything else I'd heard that evening, except this time I could tell it was directed straight at me.

I snapped out of it to see I'd been inadvertently staring at a skinny girl with long, straggly hair wearing an oversized camouflage hunting jacket, jeans, and thoroughly beat-up leather boots. _Shit kickers,_ Jason would have called them.

"It's time for you to move on," Long Shadow said to her.

"She's been sitting here longer than me," she replied, jerking her head in my direction, and I suddenly felt petty enough that I had to resist the urge to correct her grammar.

"You're not welcome here." Long Shadow's venomous tone left no doubt he meant business. I realized that in fact he'd taken it easy on the Amish kids, and I wondered what this woman had done to draw his anger while I'd been staring blankly.

She got off her barstool in a great huff, much like a sullen teenager stomping upstairs to her bedroom. I had expected at least a hint of fear from her, but she remained agitated, throwing her body around jerkily as she gathered herself to go.

As she left out the side door, I considered my position here, at one end of the bar. Surely I'd be noticeable in this same position, like a big red bull's eye on a target. I wasn't expecting anyone to be looking for me, but even a casual observer might notice and wonder what I was doing. Camo Girl had, though I'd been staring at her.

And that was the problem. I was growing tired—beyond grumpy—from all of the mental exertion, and as a result, sloppy. I would have liked to have left, but we hadn't specifically discussed my exit strategy. Personally, I'd been worrying instead about how I was going to help snag the Amish kids, but that had worked out just fine, or so it seemed. Maybe too well. I certainly didn't want to have to repeat this evening, so I hoped they were sufficiently scared off. Maybe Long Shadow should have turned up his menace one more notch for them.

I was still thinking about leaving when I felt the tap on my shoulder. I guessed who the blank void was before I even turned around.

Yep. Tall, Blond, and Farmer's Market. Eric.

"Dance with me," he said, less by way of request, and more by way of order. I guessed not many people said _no_ to Eric. I almost said, "I'm busy," but then I realized I might be able to turn this into a 'goodbye.'

Also, I realized I'd been tapping my foot absently to John Lee Hooker's _Shake It, Baby._

Also, a woman like me doesn't get many dancing opportunities. Ever.

Eric was so tall and noticeable, patrons automatically cleared a path for him. We cut through the crowd easily to the dance floor, and once there, a space opened up, as if by magic. Not reticent in the least, Eric immediately pulled me into his arms and started rocking back and forth, warming up to the beat, which called for a little more bounce and movement. Once he saw I was following him, he picked up the pace, and much to my surprise, Eric could dance. I would have thought a big guy like him would do more lumbering and shuffling. But he was a strong leader, light with his touch, but definite in his direction. He could make a dance partner look good. Not that I needed much help in that department, I'll have you know. After a few twirls and spins, I felt my hips sway and grind with the music. And then after that, I simply let it loose and had fun. Yeah, I shook it, baby. My cheeks hurt from smiling, so unused were they to the real deal.

Of course, when things seem too good to be true, that's usually the case.

In the middle of a twirl, I caught a mental whiff of Pennsylvania German from the crowd. Instantly, my real smile flipped to pretend, and as I missed a step or two, there was no use denying to myself that I'd "heard" something.

"Just a minute," I said, holding up a finger as I listened. I shook my head, turned it from side to side like a dog cocking his head at an interesting sound. Yeah, I knew my behavior was odd, but I'd heard enough to know that someone was in trouble.

Eric, of course, hadn't missed a beat, and by that I didn't mean his dancing.

"Someone's speaking Pennsylvania German in the crowd," I lied, wondering if that would buy me any time. Whoever it was was a loud broadcaster, or he was simply excited. And then, as if I'd finally turned my head at just the right angle, I knew.

"Bathroom!" I explained in shorthand, still listening as I spoke. "Amish dude in the bathroom!"

Eric looked at me like I had three heads. _Mm-hmm, different. _"Do you want _me_ to get him?" I prompted. "'Cause he's about to get beat up."

Eric glanced around briefly, maybe seeking someone else to do his dirty work. "You will follow me," he said, and then he turned and strode toward the hallway leading back to the restrooms.

Following Eric _across_ the dance floor was a lot less fun than following him _on_ the dance floor. Even as we walked down the hallway and neared the restroom, the loud band music obscured whatever audible noises might be coming from the bathrooms, unless vampire hearing was so acute that Eric might finally be attuned to it too. But as we got closer, I telepathically picked up more of the unfolding "story."

Eric pushed his way into the last door on the right. I decided I was just fine waiting out in the hallway.

"Sookie," a voice whispered almost immediately.

Turning, I noticed Bill sticking his head out a door marked "Private." I walked toward him. "I have to make sure everything's okay in the men's room," I explained, realizing how ridiculous that sounded as soon as I said it.

"It's all right. This is Eric's office. He'll know we're in here."

I entered the austerely furnished room, containing a couch, a desk, a lone file cabinet, and a few extra chairs, with none of the personal touches or quirks (including the paperwork mess) that Sam's office contained. Except for the Vampires of Fangtasia wall calendar. I was glad to see September's shirtless vampire hadn't been posed with a back-to-school motif, which would have been beyond tacky. He had _very _interesting tattoos. I wondered how far down they went below the waistband of his pants. These vamps seemed to be experts at promoting themselves.

"What happened?" Bill asked.

I tore my eyes away from the tattoos. "As far as I can tell, an Amish kid was in the bathroom, enjoying the indoor plumbing to the tune of the band." He'd been quite happy, in fact. "And then some other guy who entered the bathroom—not Amish—didn't appreciate his foot tapping. He must have thought the Amish kid was trying to horn in on his territory. He'd been waiting for a vampire friend to join him and took offense to the extra pair of happy feet."

Bill shook his head. "Eric won't like that. There's not supposed to be any feeding on the premises."

"Well the problem at the moment is actually with two humans," I pointed out.

Bill actually snorted. "You think that makes a difference?"

The vehement tone in his voice made me stop short.

"Sookie, what do you think the press will make of it if anyone, vampire or human beats up an Amish person in a vampire bar?"

"I see your point," I acknowledged. Not too long ago, the favored make-out spot for young people, so I was told, became popular with not only the straight crowd, but the gay crowd as well. Only when gays made their presence known did anyone—and by _anyone,_ I mean gay people—get arrested for lewd conduct, even though heterosexuals had been going at it there for years. Clearly, homosexuals were held to harsher standards.

I had to believe that vampires, too, would be held to harsher standards, doubly so around the Amish. The Amish were largely accepted by the rest of the community. To be crass about it, they were the backbone of a lot of industry in the area, my own job included. But beyond that, a lot of folks generally respected them, even if they didn't understand them, and as a result, they were a heavily protected crowd. Sure, some folks called them weird religious fanatics or complained about their buggies jamming up the roads, creating dangerous situations for all. Most people allowed for them safely, though, and held them in high regard. I guessed that if _any _kind of trouble cropped up for the Amish with a vampire _anywhere_ in the vicinity, nearly everyone would side with the Amish. In this case, here at Fangtasia, if an Amish person were harmed—by vampire or human—the vampires would be vigorously singled out for allowing the violence to happen in one of their establishments.

Around the Amish, the vampires would need to be angels.

But right now, for me the bigger problem was explaining to Eric how I'd heard the trouble in the restroom. I should have been discussing it with Bill, but before I could, Eric entered.

"I got Amish Boy out." He handed me my shawl, which I'd left at the bar.

"What about his sidekick?" Bill asked, and even I could see Eric was none too pleased about being questioned.

"We scanned the club and couldn't find him. Amish Boy thinks he left, and he claims they were the last of them here this evening."

I started to stand, even more weary after having had a break.

"Stay," Eric said, and I had to stifle the urge to bark like a dog.

Beside me, Bill encouraged me to remain seated with a barely noticeable tug on my dress; begrudgingly I did so, realizing it better for myself to cooperate than cause a fuss. Still, I stewed in silence next to him as Eric left again. Maybe we'd handled my telepathy poorly, trying to hide it; I could see how it had raised suspicion of us. Though I'm not sure it would have gone over any better if Bill had announced he was sending a telepath to Fangtasia. Maybe it was a damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don't kind of situation. _Wasn't that always the way with my telepathy?_ I thought to myself, grumpy. In any case, now it would be time to simply come clean with it.

I pulled out a nail file and took care of a rough edge. I reminded myself that we'd come here tonight to help keep the Amish kids safe and put a stop to Rumspringa with fangs. I paged through a copy of _American Vampire._ I spent some _more_ time reminding myself why we'd come here. Next to me, Bill went completely and utterly motionless. Fascinated, I watched him for any flicker of motion. There was none. He reminded me of one of those performance artists I'd seen in Philadelphia, the kind who strikes a pose until you stick money in his jar. Except Bill didn't show any signs of movement, and watching him was like, well, watching a statue. Bored and restless, I got up and paged through the calendar again.

Boy, did they ever know how to promote themselves.

"January is quite nice," a smooth voice said. I looked up to find Eric and Long Shadow standing just inside the doorway. The band had wrapped up, and I could tell from the remaining voices and mental images that things were rapidly winding down in the club. It was past two AM, last call.

Suddenly, from out of the relative quiet, I heard Pennsylvania German being spoken excitedly. _Duh's net! _Don't do it! Something was being thrown. There was gravel…and…metal…the dumpster in the parking lot…and sharp teeth! I remembered the vampire I'd noticed stationed there on my way in. _Judas_, those boys knew how to find danger. Or maybe it was inevitable.

"They're still here!" I said, diving in full throttle. "Some kind of trouble is going on out by the dumpster."

By now, the vampires seemed to know the drill. Eric's mere look at Long Shadow sent him away to deal with the situation, and then, of course, his attentions were immediately re-focused on Bill and me, his voice clear and unrippled. "We'll discuss this evening's events when Long Shadow returns." Mr. Cool and In Charge.

There was no way I was going to be able to sit here and wait while doing nothing. Plus, my human needs were kicking in with great urgency. "Glad to," I replied as cheerfully as I could. I stood, adjusting my shawl around my shoulders. "Please excuse me for a moment while I freshen up." I hoped I sounded a lot more graceful than I felt.

I used the facilities—without any toe-tapping background music—and set to righting myself in the mirror. I pulled my messy hair into a ponytail as neatly as I could and dabbed on a bit of lipstick. Then using a tissue from my purse, I cleaned up my smudged eye makeup. The end result was passable. I was walking down the hall toward Eric's office again when I heard more commotion, a mix of emotions and voices and pictures.

_O holy and merciful Father…_

_Finally! 4-H cattle roping pays off! Ha!_

There was a void, too. A vampire. And a jumble of excitement, gravel, metal, throwing, teeth, and…Wait a minute!...Was it mice? Rats?

Were they horsing around, chucking rodents at each other by the dumpster?

I leaned against the wall as my head swam. Why hadn't Long Shadow stopped them? I couldn't localize thoughts very well, but I had a sudden sensation that I was hearing a mix of thoughts from two different locations.

And then, looking up, I noticed a back door marked _Exit_.

_Judas,_ was something going on there too? When I'd said _dumpster_, I hadn't specified the one I'd seen out in the front parking lot. Now I wondered whether there was one out back too. I eased the door open and peeked out, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. One dim light on a pole illuminated a wide enough area for me to see the boxy shape of a dumpster. Aside from a red Corvette, the relatively small parking area was otherwise empty.

Except for the figures just in front of the dumpster.

I recognized one of them immediately as Camo Girl, crouched over a prone body, still congratulating herself on her 4-H cattle-roping skills. Piecing together the mix of images, the one I saw with my own eyes layered with the mental pictures she was projecting, I could tell just what she was doing.

Draining Long Shadow.

She was terribly excited she'd snagged him with her silver chain, so much so that I didn't think she was too aware of her surroundings. Myself, I was suddenly hyper aware as I puzzled out Long Shadow's predicament. How long did he have? I didn't know. She must have been fairly quick and strong—and good with a lasso—to have taken down Long Shadow. Maybe she was a user too; I'd heard stories of super hero strength in humans after ingesting vampire blood.

I supposed one option was trying to sneak inside for vampire backup. But truth be told, I felt partly responsible for Long Shadow's predicament and figured I ought to take responsibility for getting him out of this bind.

Truth be told, having just spent the night listening to nasty thoughts—Camo Girl's definitely included—I was itching for a fight.

I could take her.

Staying within the shadows, I looked for a heavy stick or anything I could use to shove her off of him; I saw nothing of the kind. Leave it to the vampires to clear the area of all stake-like objects. If Jason's truck were around, I'd grab a chain out of his bed, but that was just wishful, wasteful thinking. I supposed I could make for a running tackle, which would give me some momentum at least. Or I could take the risk of sneaking up on her in the gravel. I slipped off my heels quietly and felt with my feet. Lucky for me, the gravel was fine. I was about to toss my shawl off to the side when a plan of sorts came to me. It was better than nothing, anyway.

As I crept toward her from behind, Camo Girl's excitement was ramping up, which fed my own. Steadying myself, I picked my way across the gravel, forcing an even, quiet pace. In my palms, I twisted the ends of my shawl, wrapping it firmly to get a good grip. And then, as I crept closer...closer...close enough...I sped up, lifting my shawl.

I brought it down over her, aiming for her face and pulling backward. She did one thing I was hoping for, which was letting go of Long Shadow and reaching up to tug the shawl away from her eyes. But at the same time, she shoved hard both up and back with her feet, which sent the two of us reeling backward.

We landed flat out in the gravel on our backs, her atop of me. She continued for a moment or two to try to pull off the shawl, which somehow I'd managed to wrap around her face fairly tightly. Lucky for her, she could still breathe. And then as her momentary surprise and panic wore off, she started flailing with her elbows and feet, managing to land a few blows.

"What the fuck!" Her curses were muffled.

"Get out of here!" I said through clenched teeth. _Shoo. Git. Go on and git while the gittin's good, _Gran would say. Except I could feel my own strength waning and was thoroughly disheartened to hear from her thoughts that she had no plans of gitting. I hadn't thwarted her enough to make her decide to cut her losses and run.

And above it all, from seemingly nowhere, a quiet thought drifted over me and alighted, tickling first, then burrowing.

..._Forgive us, Lord, where we have sinned against Thee…_

I nearly let go. Worse still, another image came to me, one of Long Shadow reorganizing himself from a prone figure being drained to one gathering enough energy to be released.

"The chain!" I gasped, letting go of Camo Girl. In our struggles, we'd snagged the loop of silver chain that she'd used to lasso him and pulled it free. Long Shadow had yanked the needle from his arm and was rising up.

I thought that was the scariest thing I'd seen in my life—Long Shadow's grimacing face, in pain, furious, rearing up and over us, poised to strike like a snake at any moment. I was pinned there with Camo Girl frozen on top of me.

"Bill!" I screamed.

And then he struck.

"No!" I screamed again, throwing an arm up in front of my face. For a blinding moment, there was just motion and thrashing and a horrible scream-gurgle. There was hard, honest pain, too-not mine, I didn't think-tagged with terror and panic, which might as well have been my own. And then more motion and thrashing along with dizzying disorientation.

Suddenly, I found myself standing by the door to Fangtasia, propped up by Bill. Down a long, blurry tunnel, Long Shadow was latched on to Camo Girl's neck.

"She tried to drain him," I said, still dizzy, realizing Bill had yanked me out from underneath her at vampire speed.

…_let the light of Thy loving kindness illuminate our pathway…_ The voice tickled at me again. I snapped to, the prone figure of Camo Girl coming into focus sharper than ever.

"Stop him!' I shouted. "He's gonna kill her!"

Bill's hands tightened. "We have the right to retaliate against those who try to harm us."

Eric had come out the door, surveying the scene dispassionately. It was clear neither of them had any intention of stopping Long Shadow. An eye for an eye seemed to be their philosophy. Tit for tat. You drain me, I'll drain you. Though as I thought about it more carefully, one of them was about to die for good, and there didn't seem to be anything equal or just about it.

Knowing that someone is in the process of dying, immediately in front of you, especially one whose death you had a hand in, has a way of unraveling you. "They were throwing mice at each other. Or rats," I said to Bill, babbling. "It was some kind of rodent." I don't know why it mattered. Mice, rats…what was the difference? "It was the wrong dumpster," I added. "The Hexenmeisters. They're horsing around out front, near the construction dumpster." They still were. I could still hear them. Meanwhile, I'd messed up, unintentionally putting Long Shadow in danger over some stupid high jinks. Farm kids chucking rodents at each other. Maybe the Hexenmeisters had come for harmless fun, but that wasn't what some of us got. In fact, now I wasn't sure there even was any harmless fun to be had here.

And then another problem presented itself, as I realized, finally, that the praying was coming from the men's room, just inside Fangtasia. _Lieber Gott_, an Amish kid was hunkered in a toilet stall. Standing atop the toilet, he'd seen the whole thing from the high window in his stall, and now he was panicked, wondering how he was going to get out of the place alive.

I felt like I was in the middle of a Harrison Ford movie.

"We've got a problem," I said and laughed crazily. We had _so_ many problems.

"Explain," Eric said, and by that I knew he meant the _whole_ story, including how I'd been able to locate the Amish kids tonight.

I skipped any preamble. The night had already been too long. "I'm a telepath. I can hear thoughts. _Human thoughts._" I made sure to emphasize that. "And right now, I can hear that there's a witness to this scene."

Eric responded to the first part of my speech with measured calm, his eyes tracking mine, and then asked, "Where?" I guessed he'd be able to hunt him down easily enough on his own, given that the witness was just inside the building, on the other side of the wall I was leaning on.

"He's Amish," I answered. In my way of thinking, a human was a human, but telling Eric the witness was Amish was the short cut to sparing his life. Judging from this scene, moralistic arguments would likely fall on deaf ears. I wished I could give Camo Girl a second chance too, but clearly it was too late for that.

_Make him forget, _I wanted to say. _And give him something harmlessly scary enough to keep him from ever coming back. _

Eric was still waiting for my answer—where?—and by now, Long Shadow had picked himself off the gravel, even in the dim light appearing rosy and plump in the face, absent even one speck of gratitude. "I hear telepaths are extra tasty," he said. For the first time, I considered the inadequacy of the statement, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you."

Bill's hands tightened again. "Sookie's mine," and for a moment, I thought I myself had become a bone about to be fought over by two dogs.

Eric's eyebrows lifted, first in response to Bill, and then in expectation that I'd answer him. I'd sure like to know when I'd become Bill's property, but I had to answer to Eric first.

I pointed behind me, over my shoulder, tapping my finger against the wall.

_Protect us with Thy great power and watch over us…_

I shuddered. "Hurry," I wanted to say. I couldn't stand his head space any more.

Eric looked at Blonde Female Vampire #2, who'd also by now joined our little party. "Pam," Eric said simply. She turned. I heard her enter the bathroom. I cringed against the momentary panic the Hexenmeister felt as the vampire approached him.

_Prepare us for Thy eternal salvation…Amen. _

And then there was a blanking, a blissful and complete washing of his troubled thoughts.

In _his_ mind. _Not_ mine.

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><p><strong>AN:** The prayer comes from _Die Ernsthafte Christenpflicht_ (The Prayer Book for Earnest Christians), one of several key texts used by the Amish, and is typically recited in German.

**Extra big thanks** to PMR for helping me wrangle this chapter into shape. ;)


	6. Welcome to Paradise

**Disclaimer:** The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I am not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

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><p><strong>Welcome to Paradise<strong>

I awoke the next morning to a loud racket in the kitchen. Cupboards banging. Pans clanging. The radio. I could smell coffee.

And bacon. Bacon makes everything better.

Wrapping up in my robe, I went out to the kitchen to find Gran standing over the stove, turning pancakes to her own rhythm with a long, thin metal spatula. _Slip. Flip. Slip. Flip._ The floor beneath the counter was a mess, with pans and casserole dishes pulled out and stacked atop sheets of newspaper. "Lady Hawks Take Lead," an old headline declared. I wondered how the "Gentleman Hawks" had fared. A bucket and a rag sat next to it all, along with a roll of shelf liner and a pair of scissors.

Gran was doing her fall cleaning.

I made a little noise and movement, a shuffling of feet, to try to keep from scaring her. She didn't notice. _Morning Edition_ on NPR was wrapping up the hour with its closing music.

"Good morning, Gran," I said gently.

"Oh!" she yelped, jumping and then turning to greet me with an emerging smile. "Fracking!" she exclaimed, the intensity in her voice startling me in turn. "Sookie, do you know about the Marcellus shale in Pennsylvania? And the natural gas they want to get out of it?" She didn't give me a chance to answer before she launched into a description of the mining process called fracking. I _had_ heard about it, in fact, which was the only way I was able to make any sense of her rambling story.

She was shaking her head. "We've had enough already, haven't we? Centralia. TMI."

Gran apparently was on an energy disaster roll. _Centralia_ was an abandoned coal town off of Rte. 61. I'd driven by there once and seen the ghost town wafting with smoke from the mine fire burning underneath. Customers in the tavern still talked about it, as they did TMI—Three Mile Island—the nuclear power plant that faced disaster back in the seventies. Usually their stories began with something like, "I remember exactly where I was when I first heard."

"They cancelled _all_ outdoor activities that day," Jane Bodehouse had told me. Occasionally, Jane still wore a faded t-shirt proclaiming, _I survived TMI…I think_. "No recess for the kids. No track or tennis at the high school." She'd nodded seriously. "And they evacuated all pregnant women and preschool children from the area."

Gran had told me that though schools in our area had kept the kids inside, no one had been evacuated. Lots of folks were confused, she'd said, and scared. "And plenty of people ran to the bank."

"I suppose we could include Johnstown flood too, couldn't we?" Gran asked, interrupting my thoughts. She practically flung her arms out wide, one of them holding a platter heaped with strips of crispy bacon and pancakes, while the other, still gripping a long spatula, reached behind to scratch at her neck, beneath the coil of her thick, white hair.

"I suppose so," I said distractedly, grabbing for the wobbling platter. The expansiveness of her words along with the press of her movements concerned me, as though she herself had been damned up and suddenly released. I wondered how much coffee she'd had.

"Are you all feeling okay?"

"Ja," she chuckled, reaching for the coffee pot. "Wonderful-gut. How 'bout we have some breakfast? Us girls. Would you grab the paper?"

She'd already set the table with woven placemats, flatware, and the white diner dishes she'd had forever, trimmed with tiny sprigs of blue flowers. "What do you suppose these are?" she'd mused on occasion, pointing out she knew of no such flower. "It's plain fanciful." She'd poured the maple syrup into a creamer and set out a glass pitcher of orange juice. I placed the platter in the center, next to a dish holding chunks of cantaloupe. Even for Gran, who'd spent many years setting out big farmers' breakfasts, this table setting was over the top.

Gran had already retrieved the paper from the delivery box up by the road, near our parking area. I pulled it out of the plastic sleeve and spread it on the portion of the table not overtaken by our breakfast.

She immediately reached for the front page and read the headline out loud.

"Opening Day." She tapped on the accompanying picture. "Looks like that mega smorgasbord and shopping center finally opened in Intercourse." She shook her head.

I guessed Gran wouldn't be shopping there anytime soon, preferring the familiar, no-nonsense, lived-in atmosphere of the farmer's market. Holding up the paper, she showed me the sprawling center with multiple buildings, including a grocery store and restaurant. In the foreground, cars filled the parking spaces, their neat, sharp lines striking against the new blacktop. Along one side, a covered area for hitching horses remained empty.

"Visitors and locals alike fill Laurel Run's parking lot to near capacity," I read aloud.

"Aye, yi, yi. Such a fuss." She put the paper down to take a bite of pancake. She used to call them flying flapjacks when we were kids for the little extra flip she'd give them onto our plates.

"Do you think they'll come?" she asked, tilting her head in the direction of the paper again.

I guessed she was referring to the empty horse-and-buggy stall. "I don't know," I said, thinking it wasn't the kind of place where Amish families would eat or shop. Maybe they'd be able to sell their goods there, though I wondered who would profit most from that venture. "I don't think it matters since they seem to have so much stuff." For tourists and locals looking to consume, Laurel Run had plenty, whether the Amish came or not. It wasn't like Fangtasia, where people expected to rub elbows with vampires.

Gran pursed her lips soberly, probably worrying about the future of her favorite farmer's market. And then she brightened suddenly. "How was your night out?"

My stomach plummeted to the bottom of its grubby pit. "Oh, just fine, Gran." _Helped save some Amish kids from the perils of a vampire bar. Rescued a vampire from draining. Witnessed a murder. _ _Narrowly escaped getting drained myself. _I thought maybe I'd never used those words _Oh, just fine, Gran _so inapplicably, except that at the moment, it all seemed like a very distant, foggy memory. I went on counter-offense to keep it that way. "I got in very late, so I outened the lights in your room and went to bed. Looks like you got up early?"

"Ja," she said, immediately distracted by the clutter on the floor, so much so that I felt terrible for having drawn her attention there. She turned to her breakfast abruptly, finished it quickly and silently, and then stood to get on with her chores. I followed suit.

For the rest of the morning, I helped her, cleaning up the breakfast dishes and then going on to empty out cupboards, scrub the shelves, add new shelf liner where needed, and reorganize all the contents. I threw myself into the task, riding along on her wave of seemingly endless energy. It eased my guilt, or at least distracted me from it.

Around 11:00, Sam called, sounding harried. "Sookie, could you come in early today?"

"When?"

There was a silence. "Like now."

"Now?" I cast a glance at the cupboard contents lining the floor.

"I'm in a jam. Dawn didn't show at ten, I can't get in touch with her, and the lunch crowd is starting to trickle in. Charlsie's here by herself."

What about Arlene? Or Holly? Or Danielle? I didn't ask because I already knew the answer. They had children, ready-made excuses for why they couldn't drop everything and come running. I didn't have a life, other than work. It was a widely-known point, which maybe irritated me more than not actually having a life. But today I wondered whether I was, in fact, needed at home.

"Just a minute, Sam." I touched the mute button and looked around the kitchen. Gran was actually scrubbing the tops of her canned goods. Savvy enough to understand the gist of my conversation, she eyed me with aggravation etched deep into the wrinkles on her face, only one step away from snapping, "I don't need your help."

Worried, I sighed to myself and wondered whether I'd have to have a "caffeine intervention" with her. There was only one way out now. I turned off the mute and said to Sam, "All right, but may I leave early?"

He paused again. "That would leave Arlene alone here with Kennedy."

"All right, all right. Never mind." Arlene didn't always get along well with Kennedy. Plus one server might be cutting it close. And I could always use the money. "I'll be there as soon as I can. I gotta get ready."

I hung up, still feeling torn between obligations.

I hurried through an abbreviated beauty routine, kissed Gran goodbye, and ran up to my car, disheveled and cranky before my double whammy shift had even begun. By the time I got to Virginville, the lunch crowd was hopping, and Charlsie Tooten looked fit to be tied. She barged out of the kitchen hauling a fully loaded tray. Her apron, marred with a glob of mashed potatoes, twisted and bunched at her waist. Piled high atop her head, sections of her curly hair had sprung free.

"Thank heavens you're here Table 4 needs more sauerkraut," she spewed as soon as she saw me.

I jumped right in and worked straight through the lunch service without stopping once. Things were starting to slow to a more manageable level when the first report that something was wrong accompanied a beer delivery.

"Must be a big accident somewhere," Duff McClure reported, handing Sam a clipboard for his signature. "Lots of sirens passed me on New Dreibelbiss Mill Road, not too far from Zuckerman's."

"Truman come through here today?" Tom Hardaway asked, referring to the fire chief who often ate lunch at the tavern.

"Usually he's been in by now," replied Dusty Kolinchek, on break from his yard work business and eager to share some local gossip.

Tom raised his eyebrows in a surmising fashion until John Robert Briscoe, an insurance agent with an office in Bird-in-Hand, said, "Truman and his wife took off for a few days for some fishing up in the Finger Lakes." John Robert was thinking he'd like to be able to take some time off for fishing too.

"There's trouble in Paradise," said Lorinda Prescott, not intending anything witty by her statement. "Out near the Zweizig farm, I heard." She'd ordered a pizza cheese steak, which she was eating with a fork and knife.

"Oh, hey, Lorinda," Dusty turned, noticing Lorinda seated at a table behind him. "How's that knotweed? Did we get that taken care of?"

"It's back like it was never gone."

"Aye, yi, yi, I got at that good." He lifted his hat, adjusted it, and set it down firmly on his head again. "I thought for sure we nailed it." Evidently Lorinda had had a nasty bout with an invasive weed, which she'd wanted taken care of before she set out the fall harvest display in her front yard.

"I'll stop by and take a look later this afternoon," Dusty promised. Having recently taken over the lawn care business from his father, Dusty was still proving himself a worthy successor. Lorinda, who took great pride in her property, was a customer he'd sorely wanted to please.

"Is that Zweizig farm the one out there past Kinder's Corner?" Tom asked, steering the conversation again to the topic of the sirens.

Duff, on his way out the door, added, "Weren't they putting an addition on that house not too long ago?" But before anyone could answer, he pointed a finger at Dusty, suddenly remembering. "Did you find that mower part you were looking for?"

Dusty nodded, his mouth full.

"I got a new small engine repair man. I'll give you his number next time." Duff apparently was a wealth of information.

"Next time," Dusty agreed, waving good-bye.

"I wonder where Andy is," Tom mused. "Did he come in today, Sookie?"

"I haven't seen him."

"Hey, Charlsie, did you see him?"

She shook her head, in the middle of tallying up a check.

Andy, a criminal investigator for the state, would come in a few days during the week for lunch. Barrel-chested, his flapping, ill-fitting sport coat exaggerated his top-heaviness. When pushed to discuss his career of fighting crime in rural Pennsylvania, he'd acknowledged he'd drawn his gun only once, when he'd stopped a drug deal in a remote barn. It was neither the kind of story that Andy liked to share—mainly because he'd only stumbled onto it in response to a disturbance of the peace call—nor was it terribly interesting, but locals drew it out and talked it over during moments of boredom, each time with the hope of gaining some bit of new insight. Today was no different, as patrons gathered to discuss local fires, car accidents, and burglaries they remembered. Speculation continued in fits and starts, flaring up as soon as someone new walked in.

Randall Shurtliff was practically accosted when he entered the tavern. "Hey Randy, what's going on out there? Hear anything?"

"Something big," he answered vaguely. "They shut down the road to Paradise, just past Kinder's Corner."

In retrospect, the conversations seemed naïve, disrespectful even.

Sam finally heard enough speculation and idle gossip to switch the barroom TV from the sports channel to a local one, which was broadcasting a special report. It took us all a few moments to understand that we were looking at an aerial view of a farmhouse. Yellow police tape encircled a wide swath of land around the structure, taking up driveway, yard, and field. Inside the circle was bad. Outside, good. A pell-mell scattering of police cars, vans, RV units, ambulances, and fire trucks lined the road and fields in front of the house.

_Amish Hostage Situation Unfolds in Paradise, Pennsylvania_, the banner read across the bottom of the screen. As the image hovered unsteadily in its stomach-churning way, the somber voice of a man spoke. "Once again, if you are just tuning in at this time, reports are sketchy, but it appears that a group of women and girls are being held at gunpoint by a lone unidentified man. We are unable to see what is happening inside this house, as, we are told, all of the windows were boarded up immediately after the man entered the home." The reporter went on with some filler, describing the house as a typical Amish farmhouse in Lancaster County, pointing out the simple main portion of the structure, white siding, and additions typically built with a growing family.

The crowd was silent. I realized quickly that everyone was still making sense of what was happening, and in that moment, took the opportunity to fortify the protective steel-like plates in my head, wincing from the effort.

"Where is that?" was the first question uttered by anyone. The rest of it seemed so hard to fathom, it was untouchable.

Then people started talking at once.

"That's not the Zweizig farm."

"Sure it is. There's the addition Duff was talking about."

"Naw. Just like the reporter said, a lot of 'em have additions like that. The Zweizig farmhouse doesn't have a porch across the entire front."

The problem was that they all looked the same, especially from this angle, without the perspective of the surrounding farmlands. We were all floating there, along with that helicopter, struggling to understand what we were watching. Aside from our basic lack of knowledge of the facts, there wasn't a whole lot within us that could accommodate the notion of anyone harming a group of defenseless, peace-loving women and children. None of us believed it was possible. Not really.

But of course, that initial shock wears off quickly. I could feel the vibrations around me as the news started to sink in. People started moving and agitating. Cell phones got pulled out. I watched Charlsie call her daughter. People shared stories, too, the general theme of which was what-is-this-world-coming-to, decidedly more disturbing than the earlier discussions on fires, accidents, and burglaries.

"Has anyone gotten that email from Maxine Fortenberry?" Jan Fowler wanted to know. "The one warning about crystal meth disguised as strawberry Pop Rocks?"

Bill Auberjunois, sitting next to her, hadn't gotten the Pop Rocks warning, but said he'd heard rumors of some weird local sex club. A few minutes later, when I was picking up a drink order at the bar for a table out in the dining area, I overheard Jan telling Bill about her first husband's drinking problem.

Jane Bodehouse, resident alcoholic, who'd been in for her standard mid-day drink, didn't show any signs of budging. I called her son Marvin to pick her up. In the meantime, I put in an order for a cheeseburger and fries for her. The rest of the barstools were solidly occupied, too, by people crunching on hard pieces of beer pretzels that Sam always sets out for free. I watched him refill the bowls several times. I watched him wipe crumbs from the shiny, lacquered surface of the bar top.

"Anybody need refills on drinks?" he asked. When it was clear everyone was all settled for the time being, he motioned toward the hallway leading to his office. "Sookie, come here for a moment."

I hesitated. Stopping in the middle of my day would do me no good. I'd have to work twice as hard to keep those steel plates in place. But Sam motioned again, and he was my boss.

Sam's office had an identity crisis, unable to decide what it wanted to be. Its tall ceiling called attention to its open, reaching space, but really its footprint was small, like a giant with tiny feet. There were no bookshelves clinging to the walls, which might have threatened to cave in. He'd recently painted everything but the wooden floor a fresh, harsh white that glared under the industrial fluorescent bulbs buzzing overhead, the only light in the windowless space. Beautiful carved moldings, caked with layers of paint, had lost some of their details. Aside from the stacks of ever-present paperwork, a simple framed photo of a collie sat on his desk.

Sam sat in a padded office chair with upholstery that had split and been repaired by duct tape multiple times. What his chair lacked in stability, his desk more than compensated. He worked hard at his desk, I knew. It was an old, heavy, steel desk, a workhorse of a beast, built to last. The kind that roots in place by unflagging effort. I looked down at the worn wooden floor boards to search for grooved indentations as Sam rearranged himself in various positions. Legs crossed, hands clasped behind head. Chair square, elbows on desktop, chin resting on hands. And finally, feet flat to floor, hands on belly, chair leaned back. His chair creaked and groaned beneath his posturing as nervousness radiated from him in a low, humming drone.

I perched on the arm of the other padded chair in the room, worn, but better than the hard, functional wooden desk chair that sat next to it.

"I asked Danny to work tonight."

"That's a good idea." Danny Prideaux often served as bouncer whenever our newest bartender, Kennedy Keyes, was working.

"You okay with all this?" He searched me with those true blue eyes of his.

It seemed an odd question, as if I could possibly have a say in it all. What I wanted to tell him was that I thought the best decision would be to have _him_ there behind the bar tonight, while a stirred-up crowd awaited the outcome of the hostage situation. Not Terry, and all of his fragilities, and not Kennedy, with her history of manslaughter. But I had to believe that Sam had considered all possibilities and wouldn't be leaving his own business—his pride and joy—if he didn't have to. Whatever his reasoning, it wasn't any of my business.

"Sure," I said. "Kennedy will be fine. Plus Danny's good back-up on a night like tonight." Together, they made a great team, and in fact, many had begun speculating that there was more to their bouncer-bartender pairing.

"Right." He settled in his seat for a moment, apparently still mulling something over. Then suddenly, he lurched forward and stopped, as though he were about to speak, then cut himself off, thinking better of it. "Okay."

I stood up, since it seemed as though he were releasing me from this odd little meeting.

"Sookie…"

Maybe not. "Yes, Sam?" I asked, grinning.

"Thanks for putting in the extra hours today."

"It's all right. I'm happy to help."

"But I know it's been a tough day and all."

_Tough day_ didn't quite cut it, but it was the _and all_ part that made me pause. Sam had never acknowledged my telepathy, either directly by asking me about it, or indirectly, by acting uncomfortable around me. I wasn't about to get into it with him here and now, though it seemed to be what people out in the bar were doing, revealing things about themselves they wouldn't normally, barriers broken down as they coped with the stress of the afternoon. Maybe he thought he was making things easier for me. Maybe…well, I didn't know. I couldn't let myself come unglued. I managed a nod, even with the tension creeping up the bands of muscle across my shoulders and up my neck. I was sure my grin was looking more and more foolish by the second.

"You know I wouldn't ask if I didn't really need the favor."

"Okay. Thanks for saying." I grinned some more.

He had started to stand, which I took as a clear and final signal that we were done. And then a couple of things happened at once. Noticing that my socks were uneven, I bent down to straighten them. Distracted, I let my guard down the tiniest bit, and standing up quickly, I stumbled. Sam's hand reached out to my elbow to steady me, and in that split second, I suddenly found myself tumbling into his head space, strangely opaque and vague. And then just like that, Sam seemed to flinch, and I was out. He'd given me the telepathic equivalent of being tossed out on the street. Bounced.

I'd never felt anything else like it, nor had Sam, as far as I could tell, and I didn't know what to do. Was it like one of those quiet little belches that Gran has said is best to let go unacknowledged? Or did I need to say, "Excuse me" for accidentally snooping in on him?

But he hadn't pulled his arm from my elbow, so at least I knew he didn't think I had cooties. And in fact, the longer he kept his hand on my elbow, the warmer it felt. Holy smokes. What's more, after a moment he was still holding on, lightly adjusting his grip. Only it didn't feel like gripping anymore. It felt like touching. Warm touching.

"Boss, boss, boss." I was repeating to myself. No matter what the atmosphere in the bar, it wasn't the time for us to let down that boundary between us, telepathic or otherwise. Plus I wondered with a certain amount of dissatisfaction whether I might be the only one on this planet desperate enough to be seduced through her elbow. "I'd better check on things," I said, scurrying. That was true enough.

The rest of the afternoon passed with a steady stream of stale news. By the time the dinner crowd started to pick up, the standoff had settled in as a basic fact of the day. Maybe it lulled us into a sense of complacency that nothing truly bad would happen in our quiet, peaceful little part of the world.

That's not what happened.

Kennedy and Danny arrived at 5:00 promptly. He escorted her directly to the bar, holding her hand, and perched on an end stool where he'd have a good overview of the barroom. Tonight, as usual, Kennedy was looking fresh and perky. She'd worn a pair of black slacks, slightly updated and better-fitting than the less expensive brands the rest of us wore. Per usual, she'd added an interesting accessory; this evening, it was a cuff bracelet with an art deco design that might have come from my grandmother's jewelry drawer. On Kennedy, it looked smart and stylish.

Kennedy's job as bartender suited her well. Though she knew nothing of mixing drinks and so forth when Sam had hired her, she'd been a quick study and enjoyed a certain amount of limelight that was part and parcel of her position behind the bar. A former beauty queen, Kennedy was keen on putting on a good show, smiling and chatting it up with patrons. The bar was her stage.

Tonight, though, I had a feeling Kennedy could have for once done without the spotlight. Her greeting had a bit of an edge, a forced cheerfulness that only I might have picked up with my little extra oomph of mental understanding.

Arlene arrived on their heels, freshly made-up. Next to the new replacements, her, Kennedy, and even Danny—sporting freshly washed, wet hair—I was positively feeling like the top moldy layer of Gran's sauerkraut crock.

"Sookie, honey. I hear you've been here all day!" Arlene said, rubbing my shoulder briskly. "It's just awful, isn't it?" She was referring to the hostage situation, not my work schedule, I knew.

And then we all knuckled down under the pressure of the dinner hour which brought in a healthy mix of tourists and locals. Although a lot of restaurants in the area had switched to smorgasbords, Sam continued to offer family style dining, which meant that we servers were responsible for hauling heavy trays of platters of food—country baked ham, roast beef, pig's stomach, Cope's corn, salad with hot bacon dressing, chow chow, pepper cabbage, buttered egg noodles, potato filling, chicken pot pie, and rolls, not to mention the damn pats of butter on cardboard with wax paper covers that stick to every blessed thing.

Dinner was just past its peak, right at sundown, when the news picked up again in a big, bad way.

From out of the thrum of the dinner crowd, a "Shhh, shhh!" was sounded from various patrons with their eyes glued to the TV. Silence fell across the barroom area and then subsequently into the adjacent dining room in a wave.

On the TV, the anchorman's somber expression that had stayed put all day burrowed itself into an even deeper pose. "We're receiving reports of what may have been gunfire and turn to our own Lisa Haag, on scene."

We all stopped to watch as we scratched through a new layer of understanding.

"That's right, Matthew. Only moments ago, we heard three loud blasts, followed by what could be described as the sound of rapid-fire shooting."

"Can you give us any more details?"

"Well, Matthew, there were three blasts, each seconds apart, much like the sound of a shotgun, followed by an unknown number of more rapid explosive noises. Those noises that I just described to you happened at 7:08, less than five minutes ago, and since then, we've not heard any other similar sounds."

"Can you see anything from your position there, Lisa?"

"No, Matthew, the media have been directed away from the immediate vicinity. We are standing here about a half mile due east of the Stoltzenfus farm, where the hostage situation has been playing out all afternoon, and as you can see behind me, this rise in the farmlands is impeding our view of the farmhouse. Earlier in the day, we were able to obtain an aerial view of the Stoltzenfus farmhouse, but we have not been able to venture any closer since law enforcement officials closed off the air space to anyone other than police and medical personnel."

The same tired footage of the aerial shot of the farmhouse replayed.

"Lisa, of course the question on everybody's mind is whether or not anyone inside that farmhouse has been hurt."

"Right, Matthew. And as of yet, we have not received word from law enforcement officials, but we will be sure to let you know as soon as we are informed of the situation."

"Lisa, there's already some speculation about the timing of the events. People are wondering whether anything can be made of the fact that those gunshot blasts occurred at sundown, at 7:08 PM."

Lisa appeared back on the screen. "Well, of course the meaning of the timing of the events is pure conjecture at this time, but yes, as you can see, the sun has set and light is rapidly waning."

She stepped aside and pointed out toward the harvested cornfields, where a floodlight illuminated the mundane, uninteresting view. Brown and broken empty corn stalks poked up jagged, like someone had given the field a buzz cut with a giant pair of shears.

"Thank you Lisa. We'll return to our studios now, where we are receiving word that indeed, gunfire has been reported at the Stoltzenfus farm. We are hearing that police have broken into the home and that mass casualties have been reported."

All motion in the tavern stopped. Even thoughts jammed up in the works.

"Once again, to all of our viewers, if you are just tuning in now, we are receiving word that the hostage situation in the Amish farmhouse in Paradise, Pennsylvania has erupted in gunfire, and there are reports of mass casualties."

I turned from the TV as obscure, wavering shots of the lights of Medevac helicopters filled the screen. Bizarrely, we heard them too, flying over Virginville Tavern, their real-life sounds meshing with the images we saw on TV. Some customers ran to the windows or even barged outside to gawk up at the sight. They returned, jostling each other and ordering pitchers of beer.

As the night wore on this much would become clear: eleven women and girls had been shot in total. Two women and two children died on scene. Another woman would be pronounced dead a short while later, after being transported by Medevac to the Hershey Medical Center. The rest of the victims would be transported to Hershey, Reading, and other medical facilities in the area, where their fates were still unclear. And the man who'd held everyone hostage lay dead, killed when he'd taken his handgun and shot himself in the head as police crashed through boarded-up windows with their batons and shields.

I did the only thing I could. I worked my tail off.

In between customers, I scrubbed vinyl seat cushions cleaner than they'd been in a long time. I hauled a barrel of trash out to the dumpster. I cleared vacated tables, piling serving trays higher than ever with half-eaten platters of food, grateful the physical strain overwhelmed the burden on my mind. Layette, safely ensconced in the kitchen, wondered whether I was going for some kind of record.

_World's strongest telepath! Hauls food! Clears tables! Performs amazing mental feats! _Maybe the circus would want me. I think I'd be more valuable than the bearded lady.

Arlene, dabbing at tears, periodically wandered into the kitchen aimlessly. "I'm so glad my precious babies are safe at home tonight," or "I really think this is a wake up call for all of us, if even the peace-loving Amish can't live safe from the freaks in this world" or "Did you know Rene and I are seeing each other again?"

Danny kept a careful eye on things, particularly a group of Kutztown University students who had arrived in fine form, already rowdy and exuberant before ordering several pitchers of beer. They told loud, crass jokes. ("Hey, what do you call an Amish man with his hand up a horse's ass?" And "What's every Amish woman's private fantasy?" and "Did you hear about the Amish computer virus?")

And then Mike Spencer, the Lancaster County coroner, was shown describing the chaos of the scene. We'd watched this footage earlier in the evening, but now, as before, when Mike's face appeared, someone shouted, "There's Mike!" pleased to see one of Virginville Tavern's very own on screen. "There was a lot of blood," Mike commented. "And glass and other trash." The view widened to show the scene behind Mike, still a confusing mass of uniformed people milling on the front lawn of the Stoltzenfus farmhouse. "Because we were unable to get eleven stretchers into the house at once," Mike continued, "we moved bodies out onto the lawn to provide basic care until medical personnel could transport them to local facilities."

The screen switched back to Matthew Harrow, still in the studio. "Once again, that was Mike Spencer, Lancaster County Coroner. Mike told us that the names of the victims have not been released yet, in part because not everyone has been identified. That task has been made more difficult by the fact that all the victims were dressed in similar clothes and, in the case of the adults, were not carrying identification." Matthew's lips pursed as he delivered this last bit of news, yet one more expression of the somberness and horror of the situation.

"We'll now check in with our own Lisa Haag, still on site. Lisa, I understand you have some information about the gathering of women and children at the Stoltzenfus farmhouse today."

"Yes, Matthew. We have reports from multiple members of the Amish community who chose to speak off camera that the women and children at the Stoltzenfus farmhouse had come here for a _canning party_." Lisa's mouth exaggerated the words _canning party_ as though she were speaking another language. "Many of you have heard of _barn raisings_, occasions when the Amish gather to _work together. _Today was no different as women and girls met in the Stoltzenfus kitchen, their shared goal to preserve the bounty of this season's harvest. It makes it all the more difficult to believe that a community-bound, peace-loving group would be the target of such hideous violence."

I plunked down at a table, suddenly exhausted. Lisa was speaking of the Amish as though they were some alien form, so far removed from the rest of us that we weren't capable of understanding their most basic habits. But maybe what bothered me more was the implication that _anyone_ _else_ would deserve such violence. Or maybe that wasn't what she was saying. I rested my forehead in my palms. Maybe she was simply saying that the contrast between the Amish peaceful way of life and their murderer's treatment of them was striking. I didn't know anymore, and I was too tired to figure it out.

"Lisa, our viewers are looking at a shot of the moon right now."

"Yes, as you can see, we have a full moon tonight."

The TV showed a bobbling shot of the moon, hanging unapologetically from its bare socket, revealing nothing of its impressive form of only a few nights ago. I didn't know what point Lisa was about to make, but it pushed me ultimately and finally into overcooked territory.

Arlene, who happened to be walking by, gave me another brisk rub on my shoulder. "Go on and git, Sookie," she said. "We'll handle it. Only another hour until closing anyway."

Startled, I looked from Arlene to Kennedy and Danny. Kennedy was nodding. "I'm closing down the dining room," she said.

That would leave just the barroom, which was still quite full, but seemed to have lost its thirst. We'd all had a bit too much today, in one form or another. I stood before I fell asleep on the spot and thanked Arlene from the bottom of my heart. "I still owe you a million," she said.

\/ \/

The house was all lit up from the inside out like a frenzied firefly when I got home. I was stunned to see motion inside.

Gran greeted me just inside the door, in the small porch enclosure where we kept our shoes and things. "Sookie! You're home early!" Gran looked terrible—truly old and exhausted. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a tissue that had been used and reused. In the background, from our very basic model TV, I could hear voices and music blaring, the sound of cheap noise turned up loud.

"It was a long day. Some of my co-workers offered to let me go a little early." I held onto her elbow and guided her into the kitchen, which looked no better than it had when I'd left her this morning. An upper cabinet had been emptied out, its contents, mostly canned goods and other nonperishable food items, lined up on the table. Several jars of home-canned peaches and applesauce clustered on the counter. There was a bucket, too, sitting atop the counter lined with newspaper, now wet and soggy. Several tattered rags lay in a heap in the sink.

"Gran, have you been working on this all day?"

"Ach! I really wanted to finish this job today." Her shaking hands dabbed again at her mouth. "I just seem to be spinning my wheels. Isn't it awful?"

_Awful_ seemed to be what people were saying today. I fortified my barriers, gave her a hug, and helped her sit. "Wait here a minute." Music from the living room was starting again. I didn't think I could take any more noise stuffed into my head or I might split open at the seams. I walked out to the TV, displaying yet another rerun of the Lawrence Welk Show. Gran had an uncanny ability to find Lawrence Welk at almost any hour. I turned him off.

Whatever crazed and manic fire had been lit in Gran was dying down rapidly. She looked like she might be snuffed out, right there in that hard kitchen chair, its skeletal frame precariously supporting her skeletal frame. Bones balanced atop bones. The whole rattling thing threatened to collapse.

"Let me finish this, okay? You go to bed. I'll work while you fall asleep."

She nodded gratefully, putting up no argument.

It was part simple courtesy of pitching in with the household chores, and part telepath courtesy, meaning Gran would be free to let her guard down enough to fall asleep with a telepath in the house. She had a tendency to jolt, right at that vulnerable moment between wakefulness and sleep, when mental controls slip away. On occasion, I'd "heard" startling thoughts and concerns at these moments, and given the day she'd had, tonight might be a tough one.

She seemed to be gathering her energy, scraping up whatever she had left in her from her long day to finally push herself up from the table. "Gude Nacht, Sookie. Sleep tight and sweet dreams, dear." She shuffled off to her bedroom, just off the kitchen. I heard her rummaging around in her room a bit, then water running in the bathroom, and then finally her bedsprings creaking. I'd go in to outen her lights later.

Meanwhile, I gathered up whatever I had left to simply finish the job. I started grabbing canned goods, sorting the items as I went. Within minutes, I had everything in reasonable shape, returned to the cupboards. Then I tossed all the old, wet newspapers, wiped off the counter and table, took the rags down to the washer in the basement, and started turning out lights. On my way, I noticed there weren't any dishes in the drying rack, which made me wonder whether Gran had eaten anything. I paused for a moment to gingerly reach out with my mind. There was silence. She was dead asleep.

I could have sunk into a heap at that moment, though it wouldn't have done me any good. A shower would have been heaven, but I settled instead for an old cozy nightshirt and the clean percale sheets on my bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, a flickering light passed over my face.

It was Bill, outside my window, shining his flashlight just as though he'd come to court me as a traditional Amish man. Looking to his face for clues, I couldn't read his expression in the dark, but something about his position at the window made me look harder. Could it be? On their own volition, my legs swung over the edge of the bed. Every part of me had to see if it was true.

I stepped to the window to the pace of my own pounding heart and peered out.

It _was_ true.

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><p><strong>AN:** The fictional events in this chapter parallel the real-life tragedy that occurred in Nickel Mines, PA. I posted more information about it on livejournal, including a link to an excellent documentary clip.

Also, Centralia, PA, mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, is another very interesting bit of PA history. I have driven around it a few times, and it is indeed an eery sight (check it out on Google images). Or to hear stories from some Centralians themselves, go to the radio program _This American Life_, Episode 59, Act 2.


	7. Forgiven

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

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><p><strong>Forgiven<strong>

Strangely enough, out of all the things I might have said to Bill upon greeting him that evening, the first thing that came out of my mouth was, "You're flying!"

Or hovering. Floating. Hanging. Levitating.

I wasn't sure what to call it. I actually looked up, searching for the invisible hook and line that dangled him in front of my window. I looked down, too, for any evidence of solid support. But it really was just Bill and the empty, formless air. He held steady in front of my window, waiting for my reaction to settle in, his white moth pallor suspended before a gaping-mouthed sky.

_Wow. _I didn't know whether to be in awe of him, or fear for him. Through the flimsy window screen slotted between us, nighttime trickled across my arm, wending.

"I need to tell you some bad news..." I let the words slip loose from their bindings—suddenly—and then just as suddenly faltered. "Are you really just floating there?" I stammered, "I mean..." My hands twirled, as though the action could somehow untangle all of the things I needed to say at once.

I tried again. "I need to tell you some bad news. On the ground. Where I won't be so...distracted. By..." I gestured again.

But Bill gave me a curt nod and a dismissive flick of his hand. "I know about the shootings." The rumpled expression lightly creasing his face showed distaste, not the disbelief and horror and outrage I'd seen and felt and heard at the tavern.

And just like that, I was...relieved. A whole day's worth of blistered tension popped with one clean jab. For the moment, it was simply gone, drained away. I felt so strangely light, I thought I myself could go night sky walking too.

"Would you like a lift down?" he asked.

_Oh, would I!_

"I can't," I forced myself to say, the disappointment audible to my own ears. "The screen is stuck." Sliding it open would cause too much of a racket. But after the long day I'd just had, a moment in his company with his quiet mind was nothing to be squandered. "I'll meet you?"

He nodded so casually, I realized we already had a routine together. I turned to grab my robe, but first stole another glance out the window to watch exactly how he flew. Somehow I didn't picture him gliding on his belly, arms outstretched like Superman, and in fact, Bill descended smoothly straight down, as though he were riding an invisible elevator. Once his feet touched gently on the ground, he tilted his head up at me and gave a little wave. If I wasn't mistaken, there was a faint smile on his lips.

I double-checked with my mind to ensure that Gran was still asleep before sneaking out through the living room and kitchen to the front porch. Bill was waiting for me just outside the door.

"Can you all do that?" I asked him immediately.

He shook his head. "Just some. We all have different talents."

"I had no idea," I acknowledged, wondering what those other talents might be, and what else Bill might be able to do.

"We don't make it a point to widely publicize our strengths and weaknesses."

I nodded, then tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, which he'd just offered me. We strolled along the path quietly, left to our own thoughts; I couldn't help but think Bill had shared something important with me.

We continued together until we reached the fallen tree between the smokehouse and the barn, where Bill stooped low to rest on the trunk. I joined him there, noting for the first time the green canvas backpack he was carrying. Maybe Gran would have disagreed, but with all of the other possible conversational topics that lurked, commenting on it seemed polite.

"You have a backpack."

"I'm studying for my GED."

I tried picturing Bill in a night class with a group of humans—Englishers—and came up empty. Where would he take such a class if he didn't want to be noticed? Or maybe he was taking a correspondence or computer course, in which case I wondered where his home base was. He'd have to somehow have an address or a computer with Internet access.

"You went through the 8th grade?" I finally asked, figuring it was the most innocuous of my wonderings. Amish school children, _scholars_, as they are called, attend their own schools, typically one-room schoolhouses containing all grade levels up through 8th grade, before taking up a lifetime of work.

"Ja, but it was quite different, and I'm unprepared for most fields of study."

Getting a GED and maybe a higher degree too would help Bill fit in among the Englishers. "You have a favorite?"

"I'm very fascinated by computers. Some of us used them, you know."

I was about to say I wasn't surprised, when I realized he was talking in the past about Amish folks, not vampires. "You did?"

"Vell, most of us farmers didn't, but some other business owners did. They were stripped down versions, only with word processors or spreadsheets that ran on batteries. And they weren't networked or set up to go online. Nothing that would allow you to communicate with the outside world. That's what it's always about…staying within your community."

I'm sure he could have said more on the matter, but his eyes had suddenly darkened, appearing to sink deeper into their sockets, which emphasized the hollows in his cheeks.

"Then I hope you have a chance to do that," I said quickly and brightly. "Study computers, I mean." And I truly hoped he would find a pathway that would give him enjoyment and purpose. Work was always so important to the Amish, but it had been tied in with their mode of life. Outside of that lifestyle…I didn't know what it meant to him.

"I will," he answered simply, not in any sort of cocky way. Bill would have all the time in the world to study what he chose. He smiled again, wistfully perhaps, which made me wonder what he was most yearning for. His mind was a closed book to me. Private. Fair and square. Some things he would have, and some things he wouldn't ever, not in a million years.

I shook myself, realizing the menace of our past twenty-four hours had quickly stolen over us, its shadow lengthening and slinking silently until we were fully beneath it. Doubt had entered my mind. We'd gone to Fangtasia to protect the Amish, only to find them harmed the very next day. And along the way, I'd witnessed a woman murdered. I shook myself again.

"I'll wait a few days before I return to Sarah," I said, thinking practically of the upcoming funerals that would occupy the Amish community.

"Ja. Good idea," he agreed, his posture relaxing, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, shoulders hunched. I could almost imagine him as a young man gathered with his friends, _Buwe,_ other young men, their bouts of jostling and ribbing mixed with an affected calm and a devil-may-care attitude, spitting into dirt and rubbing it in with the toe of their boots, or chewing on a piece of timothy grass.

Unexpectedly, his hand reached for mine, entwining cool and warm fingers. I held there, marveling over the sensation of being touched so delicately and quietly, with only fingers. After a moment, I gave him a little squeeze.

"I wondered whether you'd change your mind," Bill said in response.

"About what?"

"Sarah."

"Oh, no! Of course not! I'm glad I can help."

"She needs the money."

"I figured." I was grateful, nonetheless, that he'd told me directly.

"Three of her step-children have maple syrup urine disease."

I was curious how he'd heard. "Is that genetic?"

He nodded. "People who have the disease can't eat certain foods or they risk brain damage. It's very rare."

"But it runs in the Honey Creek community?"

"Ja. They do what they can to support each other, but there's not much to begin with."

I guessed that money was really tight in Honey Creek. The Amish didn't carry health insurance, relying on a common fund from their community to pay for medical bills. But there was no doubt that some communities were more successful, their farms and other business bringing in more money. Monetary riches weren't the goal, but having enough to be comfortable was not a bad thing for anyone.

I gave his hand, still entwined in mine, another squeeze. He'd have to watch this play out for the most part without really being able to intervene. Not himself, anyway. Only from afar. "I'll think more about it," I said. "There must be something more we could do. Maybe a fundraiser."

We sat in silence then, for another few minutes under the full moon, its sky scattered with clouds chuffing away from its shine. Around us, the farmlands bumped and jostled, padding toward us quietly. We were surrounded, Bill and me—nestled in securely by the push of rolling countryside from all directions.

"I feel comfortable with you," Bill finally said. "You didn't treat me any differently when I was an Amish farmer, and not now, when I'm a vampire."

I put my other hand on his arm, banded with muscle from working the fields. "I feel good around you too." His mental silence was palpable. I could feel the thud of it in my chest. The smell of it in the late summer air, pleasantly damp and green, light and filmy in my lungs. The sound of it in the piercing, rhythmic chirp of crickets. Beneath me, the coarse bark of the tree trunk bit into the back of my leg. All came to the foreground, asserting themselves in his silence. I'd wrap my arms around every bit of it.

I breathed deeply, closed my eyes, and leaned my head back, as though soaking up the sun, only way better. I knew he was watching, but I didn't care one lick.

When I felt him shift next to me, I opened my eyes again to explain. "I only hear what you want to tell me. It feels natural, the way it's supposed to be. I don't have to worry about hiding something private I accidentally heard from you. And you don't have to feel weird around me." I drew in another deep breath, relaxed in the silence. "Peaceful."

There was a different kind of silence, then, concentrated and intense.

"Peaceful," he repeated, his voice flat.

I checked myself. What price would I pay to have this particular kind of peace I treasured? What would I be willing to accept? Caught up in this very moment, I didn't think I'd hit my limit yet. Reverend Collins from our Lutheran church might not see it exactly the same.

"Yes, peaceful," I answered.

Abruptly, I stood, hopped up on the tree trunk to balance there, and stretched with a yawn. I liked the idea of this change in my routine after so many plodding days of sameness—sleep, get up, work, sleep—but there were practical matters too, namely that I'd be on my feet the next day at the tavern. I expected it to be a tough one.

Bill's eyes followed the line of my arms down, down, down and stopped—lower than my eyes, higher than my stomach. "That's a rather thin robe."

I pulled my arms down, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued by his attention.

"Young English women are much less modest," he observed.

I almost snorted. "You don't know anything about my modesty."

"I know that's a thin robe," he said again, "And I think it's only fair to say young English women express more…freedoms."

"All right. Fair enough." He had a point that would have been impossible to dispute, though I thought for sure Amish women were no prudes in the privacy of their own homes.

"And I think it's fair to say that you've come here with me willingly," he added.

"I've done nothing you haven't asked of me, so if you have a problem with any of it…"

"…but you do this by your own choice."

"Yes, of course."

"My glamour doesn't work on you, right?"

"Right."

"And if I ask you to remove that robe?"

"Apparently it wouldn't matter much since it's so thin."

He laughed. "Fair enough. Fair enough."

And then suddenly, his deep laugh stopped, and the silence between us filled the space again. Maybe it was my imagination, born out of my own desire, but it even seemed that he leaned forward a bit.

I didn't have any experience in these matters, so I did what I guessed should come next: I leaned down and kissed his cool, smooth cheek.

"Good night, Bill," I said, hopping off the tree, pleased that he looked shaken.

I went to bed that evening with a prayer in my heart for the victims of the shooting. The ones who'd been killed. The injured. The family members. The extended community. And for Bill too.

\/ \/

Given her busy day and late night, I expected Gran would sleep late the following morning.

I was wrong.

By the time I stumbled into the kitchen to the sound of clanging pans, she was well on her way through a pot of coffee. The paper was spread on the table, and she'd gotten the ironing board out.

"Good morning, Sookie! Would you like some creamed chipped beef and homefries?

"Sure, Gran. Thank you. How are you feeling?" I surveyed her face, looking for clues.

"Wonderful-gut. Tremendous."

"You're not tired?"

"Goodness, no. I slept fine. Thank you for finishing up last night. Ach! You should see today's paper!"

The paper looked thoroughly read, its pages no longer compressed and neat. Various sections were folded open and scattered haphazardly. I noticed one lone page pulled out of its section and left to lie solo. Gran hadn't read the paper. She'd mauled it.

She left her station at the stove to stand beside me at the table and started shuffling through the pages. "Let's see…it ought to be here somewhere…I couldn't believe it when I saw it…I suppose it didn't wholly surprise me, but I never expected it after such a terrible tragedy…Oh, I wanted to make sure you saw it…Here!"

She found the front section and was fumbling with it, trying to return it to its original fold, but the creases were catching.

"Ach!" Frustrated, she flailed her arms, scattering the pages.

I put my hand on her shoulder in an attempt to calm her. To say she was acting strangely was an understatement. "Gran," I said gently, stroking her back. "I'll get it." I pulled a chair out for her, but she protested.

"No, you look at that while I fix us some breakfast."

She was determined, which meant there was no changing her mind. So I did the only thing that would calm her: I sat and looked at the the newspaper.

There was a picture of the killer, Jim Collins, one that looked like an unremarkable driver's license photo. There was the aerial shot of the farmhouse that had been so frequently displayed yesterday on the news, as well as another photo depicting a group of Amish men and women, at their center, an Amish man holding a little boy, his face burrowed into his shoulder.

Above it all, in large, bold letters, the headline proclaimed, "Forgiven."

"Widower to killer's mother," the by-line read. "I forgive your son."

"Can you imagine?" Gran asked, setting down two heaping plates of homefries topped generously with creamed chipped beef. Her voice dropped raspy and low. "They forgive him."

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><p><strong>AN: **The barn raising is one form of mutual aid among the Amish that's gotten a lot of attention among the general public. This summer when Mr. MNM and I were traveling through Lancaster County, we happened upon another form of mutual aid, a fundraiser for "special needs children," open to everyone in the community. I guessed there were about 200-300 Amish folks gathered with a smattering of Englishers, under two large tents. Under one tent, they were selling food, anything from chicken dinners to hand pies (mmm!) and ice cream. And under the other, an auctioneer was putting up for bid a variety of donated items, from iced coffee to quilts.

To the Amish, who typically do not carry health insurance, this type of fundraising is an important way they manage rising health care costs. In addition, everyone contributes twice a year to a local fund. Some communities have also worked out discounts with local hospitals if they are able to round up the money to pay the bill in full within thirty to sixty days. While families are responsible for their own medical bills to the extent that they can, the community is responsible for the remainder, which in some instances can be staggering-hundreds of thousands of dollars.

It's true, too, that certain medical conditions are more prevalent within some Amish groups. This group, the Clinic for Special Children (dot org), specializes in types of disorders found in Amish and Mennonite communities in Lancaster County, PA.

I posted a few snapshots on livejournal.

Thanks for reading! ;)


	8. Cave In

**Disclaimer:** The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard, talented work.**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Cave In<strong>

A whole lot of astonishing things came out of that day when Jim Collins ham-fisted our attention. In a community accustomed to looking outward for its news, the reality hit hard that for once, the attention was aimed at us, not only by the rest of our country, but from all corners of the world. The real tragedy was _here_, in our own backyards, in the little enclave we'd always presumed was safe. There was no looking away or ignoring or escaping.

"I just can't believe anybody would do such a thing," Arlene repeated time and time again to each and every customer who sat in her section. She was merely echoing what we were all thinking. Over the course of the next couple of days, it was practically all that anyone talked of as people grappled with making sense of something so seemingly senseless.

This much we knew: Jim Collins was a retired plumber who several years earlier had faced a bitter divorce. People thought him quiet, particularly since his separation from his wife, but he'd opened his own taxi service-described as very reliable, safe, and private-shuttling Amish passengers. Though the Amish themselves do not own or usually operate automobiles, it's not unusual for them to hire a taxi when necessary. It's likely that Collins had heard of the planned gathering at the Stoltzenfus farm during one of these runs.

On the day of the gathering, Collins backed his van up to nearly the front door of the Stoltzenfus farmhouse. Many of the women recognized him—had taken taxi rides with him—and thought nothing of conversing with him over his apparent mix-up in service. "No," they'd said to him, "no one from their party had scheduled a ride." But when they'd invited him inside to help sort out the matter, he'd brandished a gun and ordered all of them in a line on the floor, where he'd quickly tied their arms and feet together with plastic ties. Then he'd unloaded his supplies, including sheets of plywood, and boarded up the doors and windows. Just before completing that task, he'd sent the one male, five-year-old John Michael out the kitchen door. John Michael then ran to the nearest neighbor, who ran to the telephone shanty to call 9-1-1.

Collins had been well-prepared for a long stand-off. In addition to the plywood, his supplies included several guns, hundreds of rounds of ammunition, binoculars, a flashlight, ropes, clamps, a toolbox, a change of clothes, and lubricant. The details did little to ease our bafflement over how anyone could commit such a horrific act. It still made no sense, no matter how many different ways the media hashed it out.

If you bought the opinion of one nationally-recognized bald psychologist, who always seemed to share the limelight with the latest famous murderer, Jim Collins was a man who likely had a troubled relationship with God. "You can't ignore the religious elements of this tragedy, the fact that Mr. Collins targeted a group of highly identifiable Christians. _Female Christians._ Put that together with his failed relationship with his ex-wife, and I'd say you have a man here who believes he's been let down by God himself. He wants all of us to witness and experience his pain-Jim Collins's pain-and to understand that God either doesn't exist or cannot intervene, even under extreme and horrific circumstances."

"God help us all," Whit Spradlin said over his hot turkey sandwich with a side of potato filling. "It's the hand of the devil himself."

"Yeah, that there is one messed-up dude," Rene Lenier agreed, his body hunched over his lunch plate, almost in a protective fashion. "Christian women and all." He placed two pats of butter in a valley in his potato filling, covered them with more potato filling, and took a drink of soda, waiting for the butter to melt. His knees bounced impatiently.

Rene was only one of a bunch of people I'd overheard who'd tipped into that territory the media had skirted oh-so-closely; he'd be much less concerned if Jim Collins had boarded himself up with a houseful of prostitutes.

"You watch," Jason said. "The gun control people are gonna be all over this."

"Nobody needs a semi-automatic firearm," Catfish countered. "You can't hunt with them anyway."

"Slippery slope," Rene said. "You let them start banning one type of weapon and before you know it, the rest are gone too." He skipped over the right-to-bear-arms mantra. "This is exactly what happens when people don't have a way to defend themselves. Those women were sitting ducks. Ain't no way Jim Collins would have picked on them if he'd thought they had weapons."

"Isn't it something about that little guy?" Charlsie Tooten said with reverent awe. She was referring to John Michael Stoltzenfus, the five year-old boy who'd run to the neighbor's house for help. To be sure, John Michael had been a smart, brave little guy. Many marveled over how independently he'd acted, finding his own way across the fields so swiftly, which likely had taken Jim Collins by surprise. But Charlsie held a Holly Hobby view of the Amish. Quaint. Charming. She'd come into work one day displaying a plaque she'd picked up at a craft store. "Wilkum," was painted in Fraktur, a German style of lettering, above the silhouettes of an Amish boy and girl holding hands.

"And they forgive that horrible, no-good man," Charlsie went on, dabbing away tears. "Can you imagine? They're living examples to all of us Christians on what it means to truly forgive."

Indeed, within hours of the deaths of his wife and daughter, Ben Stoltzenfus had announced that he forgave Jim Collins for shooting them. Other relatives of the victims—all-told there were five deaths and six more women and girls still recovering in the hospital—came forth in a similar fashion. Members of his community were seen visiting Jim's mother, who later said they'd offered her their condolences.

Their reactions stunned us all. After a whole day of watching the violence simmer and build to a deafening crescendo, it all fell apart and collapsed in on itself. A public ready to express its anger and outrage, found instead a different kind of energy building. The media was all over it, praising the Amish.

"Holding on to the resentment takes a lot of negative energy," explained yet another bald psychologist. There seemed to be no shortage of them. "By forgiving, you allow yourself to heal. Do it for yourself."

"I heard Oprah say that 'Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could have been any different,'" Danielle said.

"I saw that one!" Holly responded.

"That guy was a creep, wasn't he?"

They moved their conversation to another part of the bar.

Scholars of the Amish went on the news, explaining how the concept of forgiveness was thoroughly imbued in their everyday practice. "The Amish believe that they will be forgiven for their sins _only_ if they _first_ forgive others." Attention in the tavern waned over the explanations. We were all stuck on the hard-core nature of it.

Some simply didn't believe. Mixed with alcohol, the conversations took a decidedly twisted turn.

"You can't tell me that they _really_ forgive," Mark Duffy said.

"That's what they're saying." Jeff LaBeff pointed to the TV, as though that were all the evidence he needed.

"They don't really mean it. Crazy fucker opened fire on their women and girls. You can't _forgive_ that."

"You think they're lying?"

"They're putting on a good show." This time it was Mark who pointed at the TV. "Everyone's watching, so…" He took a swig of beer.

"Just because you can't do it doesn't mean they can't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ask your cheating girlfriend."

Then the barstools cleared, and Sam was on them immediately, breaking up the fight. They returned the following night, strangely enough, playing a twisted game of what-could-you-forgive.

Sam, to his credit, had finally flipped one of the TVs to the sports channel. On the other, he'd muted the volume and switched to subtitles. The problem, I soon found out, was that when several people were focused on the same thing at once, reading the subtitles, my telepathy actually amplified them. So amongst all of the other conversations and internal chatter, I heard the drone-like chant of the news.

"I don't get it," Kennedy confided in me. "How could she do that to herself?" Kennedy looked as good as she always did, her hair and make-up impeccable, maybe even more so than normal. But her blindingly white smile was a little thin and her thoughts were tired and threadbare, worn over and over to the limits of her patience. In her mind, she played her own movie-like scenario of Sadie Dietrich, the woman who'd reportedly stepped forward during the standoff to say to Jim Collins, "Take me first." I shivered at the details she'd created.

I didn't need to be a telepath to know whom Kennedy meant. "I don't get it, either," I said honestly. If she was looking for a sympathetic listener, she'd found one, though I didn't feel like I was any closer to answers. It seemed Sadie had taken the "turn the other cheek" idea to its most straightforward interpretation, going a step beyond simply responding with passivity. "I don't know how anyone could offer up herself without fighting back." I felt anger building. "That man did horrible, despicable things."

There was a lot of turmoil inside Kennedy too, as she was thinking not only of Jim Collins, but the violent man named Casey to whom she'd been engaged. I had to work hard at blocking all of her associated mental images; she had yet to speak publicly of them. "They say they forgive him." Her voice cracked. "But _they_ didn't have guns pointed at them. Is that right?" she asked. "Do _they_ get to forgive him?"

Again, I was at a loss, my own moral compass in a spin. When I spoke, I did so carefully, feeling each step of the way with my words. "No, it's not the same for the ones who didn't have to face him," I acknowledged. How could it be? "But nobody's condoning or pardoning what he did. And they're suffering too." Wives and daughters lost. Sisters and cousins. Friends. Jim Collins had blown a big hole into their community. "I guess this is their way of coping with it." Extreme forgiveness, the new blood sport.

Kennedy nodded. I didn't feel like I'd added much to the conversation.

"Hey, can we get another round of Vitamin Y?" Mack Rattray called from his table.

I gave him a wave and a forced smile, acknowledging his request as my anger stoked up. Kennedy was turning to grab the beers, but I reached across the bar to touch her arm and spoke quietly to avoid drawing any attention. "Listen! That man deserved to die." The words came from my gut, not from anyplace entirely Christian. "Not those women and girls. Those women and girls did not deserve to die." It was as much as I could muster in the moment. Did I think Sadie Dietrich had acted stupidly, offering herself up like that? I didn't think I understood enough about her and why she'd acted that way to know. But I certainly didn't believe she deserved to die.

"Thanks, Sookie," Kennedy said warmly, and somehow inside, there was a bit of mellow smoothness where before it had been ragged.

I wished I felt the same. I walked away with a tray of beers for Mack's table and a host of images swirling in my head. The movie-like ones of the Amish shooting Kennedy had created. Her own personal past with domestic violence. The harsh ones I'd overheard through the bathroom wall at Fangtasia, courtesy of the Hexenmeister hunkered in a toilet stall as he watched the events that night in the parking lot.

"_Wer lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand." _ Gran had told me many times. "If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults." Boy, had I ever gotten an earful, with visuals too. In color. And it wasn't pretty. Now I was less confident than ever about my actions that night. A woman had gotten murdered right in front of me. Had she deserved to die? No. Not the way I felt about Jim Collins. But I'd been a participant. I'd acted in ways to protect myself too. Maybe I wasn't such a good Christian.

I forced my mind back to work for the rest of my shift. Toward the end of the evening, I passed through the kitchen, bundled up some trash, and headed out to the dumpster. Well-lit by tall security lights on utility poles, the parking lot shone like a lighthouse in the middle of a rolling sea of cornfields. Sam took pride in his little bit of property. Even in the back here, with spaces for employee parking, he'd worked to keep a tidy space, raking the fine blue-gray gravel out of the grass edge and spraying any weeds that managed to poke through. He'd planted a row of arbor vitae hedges that grew tall, blocking view of the dumpster from the front parking lot and discouraging customers from wandering (though in practice, the hedges were a perfect place for drunks to take a leak, and Sam had to regularly hose the area down). "It's just one of those things that come along with the business," he'd mentioned more than once. I'd appreciated his efforts, in any case.

I sat down for a moment on the back step to give Dean, the neighborhood collie, a pat or two, when a sudden noise from the side of the building made me jump. Lafayette rounded the corner, drawing on a cigarette.

"What are you jumpin' at?" he asked. "Didn't you know there's a new bogeyman in town?"

"Yeah," I agreed, resignation in my voice. "It's a whole new game."

Lafayette wore his identity like a badge of honor—his thick, spidery false lashes a fine example—which hadn't earned him any high social rank. I'd always appreciated his forthrightness and honest nerve.

He drew one last time on his stub of a cigarette before stuffing it in the receptacle, courtesy of Sam. Strangely calm, he lit another one before joining me. I remembered the airless night we'd sat out here listening to the corn growing in the neighboring field, its tittering pop-rustle spooking the living daylights out of him, as he'd put it. He'd declared himself a city boy, from Reading, P-A, Murder Capital.

"Such a good dog," I cooed, giving Dean a scratch behind his ear, his favorite spot.

Lafayette watched us with dim interest, his breathing yoked to his cigarette, while Dean panted and nudged me with his wet nose.

"Sookie," he finally said.

"Hmm?"

"What's that shade of nail polish you got there?"

\/ \/

I was able to leave a bit early that night and got home shortly before 12:30. Gran was asleep, her slack jaw hanging open as she snored softly. She stirred and rolled to her side when I flicked out her lights.

I scrubbed my face clean, brushed my teeth, and neatened up my ponytail, but didn't take off my Merlotte's uniform, instead climbing onto my bed and pulling a thin blanket over me, knowing I wouldn't be able to sleep or read or do anything but wait for Bill to show up. I assumed he would, as he had every night, usually within an hour of my returning from work.

Sure enough, his flashlight glanced my window just after 1:00. I gave him a wave and headed straight for the front door, checking along the way that Gran was still sleeping.

Wrapping my arm in his, we walked the path toward the fallen tree. We made it past the smokehouse and walnut tree before I couldn't contain myself any longer.

"Sadie Dietrich," I said simply, and I could hear the catch in my voice, wanting so very badly to understand why she had acted as she had.

Bill seemed to understand immediately what I was asking of him. He nodded and then gestured toward the tree trunk as if to say, "After you," in the most proper of settings.

"Have you heard of _Martyrs Mirror_?" he asked, after having settled next to me.

"No, I don't believe so."

"You would know," Bill said grimly. "It's a book." He held up his hands to demonstrate its substantial size. "About 'yay' big." His eyes bore into mine.

"A large book," I said.

He nodded. "Full of stories of torture."

"Oh." I hoped my tone said enough about my initial horror, knowing he'd have more to say.

"It's a book that's with us right from the beginning," he added, and at first I was confused. Was he talking about vampires or Amish?

"Amish children are raised hearing the stories in _Martyrs Mirror_. In church. In school. At home. 1000 years of persecution. It's our history. It's the backbone of our community. We've been persecuted for our religious beliefs for centuries. It's all described in _Martyrs Mirror_, in stories and pictures._"_

"That's a lot to be carrying around on your shoulders." I had a feeling anything I said at that moment would have been inadequate.

"Yes," he said. "Are you familiar with the story of Dirk Willems?"

"No."

"Every Amish child knows it. It's one of the most famous stories in there."

Bill launched into the story without any other prodding. "Dirk Willems was arrested in the 1500s for his Anabaptist beliefs. He escaped from a Dutch prison, chased by a guard and the mayor. Willems made it safely across a frozen pond. The guard didn't. Hearing his cries, Willems turned back to help pull the guard to safety, whereupon he was immediately arrested by the mayor, who insisted he be burned at the stake.

Bill paused here for a moment. "The execution was bungled," he said. "A strong wind blew the flames away from Willems's upper body, drawing out his suffering. Neighbors from the neighboring village heard his cries seventy times. _Seventy times_ he cried out forgiving his enemies."

"That's awful." It was my immediate reaction, imagining the horror of Dirk Willems's end, and then I thought I should explain. "I mean his treatment, of course. Honestly, though, I don't know what to make of that level of forgiveness." It still felt beyond my imagining, even to truly understand what it meant to forgive.

"Non-resistance, too," Bill added.

I sat there with him, trying to assemble the pieces and think about what Sadie Dietrich must have been taught right from the start and how that shaped how she responded to Jim Collins. I edged closer to Bill.

There was no warning of what was to happen next, at least not to my ears. Bill must have picked up on something, because he shoved me hard behind the fallen tree and landed on top of me.

And then, it sounded like the whole world was crashing down around us.

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><p><strong>AN:** I found this expression, "_Wer lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand" (_If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults) in Linda Castillo's (2010) _Pray for Silence_, p. 182. I was unable to turn up any other source.

The "turn the other cheek" reference that Sookie makes throughout the SVM series comes from Matthew 5:38-39, which interestingly is part of a key section of the Bible for the Amish (Jesus's Sermon on the Mount). The full text is: "You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' But I say to you, 'Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also.'"

_Martyrs Mirror_, also known as _The Bloody Theatre,_ or _Martyrs Mirror of the Defenseless Christians,_ was first published in 1660 by a Dutch Anabaptist minister. A massive volume, it details the deaths of over 800 Anabaptist martyrs.

Thanks for reading! ;)


	9. Three Funerals and a Vampire

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard, talented work.**  
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><p><strong>Three Funerals and a Vampire<strong>

"Don't move," Bill hissed in my ear. His breath, dry and raspy, smelled and sounded like brown leaves scuttling on a hot pavement.

"I _can't_," I whispered. His fingers pressed urgently into me, overkill to say the least, with his weight bearing down on me too. It was like having a tree trunk felled on top of me; at least one hadn't actually crashed down on us.

Bill gave me a look that said I was being difficult and eased off, though he remained tense, his body ready to spring into action. I was still marveling over the fact that within a split second, he'd managed to land me here, tucked alongside the tree.

"I'm going to investigate," he said. And then he was gone. Poof.

I took another moment to assess. My heart was pounding in my throat, but all of my fingers and toes still wiggled. Whatever had crashed down was at rest and quiet. Now that I had my bearings, I realized the noise had come from the direction of the smokehouse.

Suddenly, the security lights blasted out into the barn yard. _Judas_, it was Gran.

"Is anyone there?" she called, her voice thin and reedy, straining to be more.

Peeking up, I saw her standing a few feet outside the front door, clad in her nightgown, her slight limbs birdlike beneath the flimsy fabric. Only days ago, I would have thought nothing of her challenging a vague threat in the darkness.

I took that moment to jump up into the shadows. There was no way I could stay put.

"Gran!" I called, catching up to her. Bill was nowhere to be seen.

"Sookie! Good heavens! Did you hear all that noise? I think it came from the smokehouse."

The smokehouse, about the size of a large garden shed, had no windows. Years ago, Grandpa Mitchell had smoked and kept hams in here, but now it was mostly used to store garden tools. From the outside, the building looked stable. Its four walls were still upright. It was hard to believe such a loud racket had come from here.

Where in the devil was Bill? I'd heard nothing of him since he'd darted away. Was he nearby? Was he okay? I crept closer to the door of the smokehouse, ajar. The sight of my 80-some year-old grandmother, standing there in her nightgown, watching me with a look of great excitement and interest, felt strangely out-of-sync with the situation. I got within a couple feet of the door when my feet stumbled on an extremely bumpy, uneven surface.

"Watch your step," I said, leaning down and reaching to feel the ground, covered with hard, round objects. I picked one up and showed it to her. "Look at that! They're walnuts."

"Walnuts!" An immediate look of understanding crossed her face. "Well, I'll be."

I gave a sturdy tug on the old door with its rusty hinges, and as I did so, even more walnuts spilled onto the path. It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness, but soon I realized that the ceiling to the smokehouse had collapsed under the weight of years and years of stored walnuts. _Hundreds and hundreds_ of them.

"Aye, yi, yi," she said, peering in behind me. Mixed in with the walnuts—whole walnuts, rotted walnuts, and walnut shells—lay wooden debris from the collapsed ceiling, garden tools, and old rusted butchering equipment that hadn't made it into the auction. "Your grandpa would have been livid. He _hated_ the squirrels. Did everything he could to keep them out of that crawl space."

"Looks like they've had quite a few good years," I observed.

"Ach! You are not kidding." She shuffled her feet amidst the piles. "They _love _that tree. But I never knew they were up to _this._ I suppose we could cut it down, but it would be such a pity. I'd miss the walnuts. Such a nice place to sit, too." The real pity was that Gran's arthritis had gotten so painful, she wasn't able to crack them anymore. Maxine and I helped her, but it was a chore even for us. Of course, no one complained when Gran baked her walnut cookies at Christmas.

"Any squirrels here now?" She laughed. "No I guess they're gone. Party's over."

Indeed, there was no motion of any creature great or small around us. "I just never paid them any mind. Forgot to check whether the openings were sealed." She shook her head, chuckling, positively pleased by the excitement. "Aye, yi, yi. What a mess. Can you imagine how long it took to store this many walnuts? Maxine won't believe it!"

"It _is_ amazing," I had to agree.

"How in the world are we going to clean this up?"

"I'll take care of it," I said. "I'll clean it out and then have Jason see whether he can fix it for us. You still want it for storing garden tools, right?"

"Yes, thank you, dear." Her eyes scanned over my work clothes. "Well, I guess that's enough excitement for tonight. It's late. Were you just coming home from work?"

"Yes, Gran." I caught a flicker from her mind, an image of her darkened bedroom, its bedside table lamp outened.

I'd misstepped. All right, I'd lied and gotten caught. Gran knew I'd been home earlier because her light had been turned out. She knew I was lying. The thought leaked out and then was gone in a flash, replaced by her unnaturally cheerful internal singing voice.

"He whose tongue is deceitful falls into trouble," Gran had quoted many times. Lying was bad enough. Knowing that she knew I was lying made it extra bad. And if I thought even more about it, knowing that she knew that I knew that she knew I was lying, but did nothing about it, made it even worse. It was enough to give me a headache.

I locked my window and closed my blinds and curtains tightly that night, and then for extra measure, turned my back to the window and pulled a pillow over my head and the quilt around my neck. And when everything was battened down securely, I felt the tears come. I cried for my Amish neighbors. For Sadie Dietrich and the other women and girls with her at the Stoltzenfus farmhouse. Mrs. Collins, the mother of Jim Collins. For Kennedy Keyes. Camo Girl, whose name I'd never learned. For the Hexenmeister who'd witnessed it all. For Dirk Willems and all the other martyrs who'd died horrible deaths. For Bill, trapped between two different ways of living. Grandpa Mitchell. Aunt Linda. My parents. Cousin Hadley, missing.

While I was at it, I cried for the squirrels. I hoped none of them had gotten crushed in the collapse, and I hoped they wouldn't starve this coming winter without their stash.

And on top of it all, I cried for Gran and that image I couldn't seem to shake, her scrawny figure under the harsh security lights.

\/ \/

"You and I are getting out of here tonight Sookie," Sam said when I showed up for my shift at the tavern the next evening.

Confused, I scanned the room. "I'm scheduled," I stammered, though counting up the servers, I saw he had a full complement. Terry, behind the bar, gave me a little wave. Holly and Danielle were already hauling heaping platters of food. And Dawn had returned after having delivered an Oscar-worthy apology to Sam involving a grandmother with a hip problem and a cell phone battery that wouldn't take a charge.

"She apologized," Sam had said a bit guiltily. I'd bitten back my immediate reaction to her lack of apology or thanks to me. Sam had continued. "And besides that, I'd have a hard time replacing her."

Again, I'd stifled the urge to speak up. I'd thought with a little searching, Sam in fact would be able to find and train someone at least as competent, and probably a hell of a lot more reliable. But since he hadn't asked for my opinion, it wasn't my business.

"Tonight you're scheduled," Sam said with grand formality, "to go out with me on a business dinner."

"Where?" Things were suddenly looking up, for sure. The first three Amish funerals had been held today. Gran and I had watched a few minutes on TV. State troopers on horses had guided a hundred or more of their horse and buggies through the streets, lined with onlookers, to a private ceremony. At the pace of the event, I guessed live coverage had gone on for hours, mostly filled with slow, sedate, and somber shots of plodding carriages and people dressed in black. Layered on top of the images was newscaster commentary, of course. No one could let the images speak for themselves.

"It's too terrible to watch," Gran had said, and I couldn't agree more. After only a few minutes, we'd turned off the TV, the noise replaced by Gran's singing, mournful. I'd figured I'd be catching the recap later in the day at work, along with customers' opinions of it all.

But now things were looking up. Sam had taken me out for lunch or supper on several other occasions, always under the premise that we were scoping out some new competition. Usually it involved a decent meal and my reassurances to Sam that his was better. Occasionally, we'd gotten a good idea for something new to serve or a new way to organize the menu or something like that.

"We're going to the new mega-smorgasbord," Sam said. "Laurel Run."

Instinctively, I glanced down at my shirt embroidered with Virginville Tavern. This was the first time he'd surprised me, and I wasn't prepared.

Sam laughed. "Kennedy left behind a blouse for you to wear."

Now I was really touched. Sam had gone to the trouble to organize this surprise along with Kennedy's help. Their timing couldn't have been better. I was thrilled I'd be distracted while enjoying a meal and helping out a friend at the same time. Win-win-win.

We arrived at Laurel Run at just past six o'clock, when the evening rush was in full swing. "About forty-five minutes," the hostess told us, and Sam immediately winced in pain. Business was good. Really good.

"That's fine," I told the hostess, reaching for the pager. It was thin, but large, and flashed circular patterns of blue light when our turn was up, as the hostess demonstrated. I was immediately irritated I'd have to carry the damn thing instead of being able to tuck it in my purse or clip it to my belt.

"Look," I showed Sam, holding up the pager the size of a paperback book. "I'm already annoyed."

But Sam was busy surveying the large, open-space waiting area with high ceilings, a huge crystal chandelier, and a commercial grade wall-to-wall carpet printed with a swiss dot pattern in blue and light blue. The entire front wall, aside from the wood-framed entrance and exit, which swished open and closed with automatic sensors, was glass. If you looked beyond the vast macadamed parking lot, you could catch glimpses of farmlands. There were bench seats lining the perimeter, as well as clusters of plush furniture and coffee tables throughout the space.

The footprint of this waiting area alone was larger than the entire entry level of Virginville Tavern. But I guessed what Sam was marveling over now was the number of patrons waiting for a table.

"Jesus, Sookie." He was counting the crowd. "This here is a full dinner service."

"We knew it would be like this, didn't we?"

"All right," he agreed, though he seemed to have forgotten.

I picked up a price list and was disappointed to see Sam's prices were slightly higher for a full family style meal. I guessed Laurel Run could count on large numbers to boost their profits. Sam was reading over my shoulder, nodding. I was confident the figures made more sense to him.

"They have a senior citizen and children's discount similar to ours," I commented. And look!" I pointed. "They have a gastric bypass discount too."

Sam's eyebrows raised in disbelief. "No shit!"

"Fifty percent off the base price during your first year post surgery."

"Why in the world would someone come _here_ post surgery?"

"Variety?" I shrugged. "A little of this and a little of that?" If I was honest, I myself was intrigued by the vast array of choices they offered. "But look." I pointed again. "If you want the gastric bypass discount, you need a photo ID, a signed doctor's note, _and _a Gastric Bypass Card with your date of surgery."

"Whoa." He shook his head in disbelief.

"Right," I said, knowing we were on the same page. At Virginville, if someone said he was a senior citizen, we gave him the discount, no questions asked. Of course, I knew who was lying, too. Frankly, the parents were more often the big offenders, sneaking a child's discount for an over-age child. But it simply wasn't our policy to question that sort of thing, only being sticklers about underage drinking.

"Our way of doing things fits us better."

I was glad to know Sam readily agreed.

"C'mon." Sam tugged on my arm. "Let's check out the gift shop while we wait." I could feel his antsiness, how witnessing the waiting throngs was irritating him.

We descended an enormous winding staircase to the bottom level and came to a dead stop, both of us blinking. Spread out before us were acres—acres—of stuff. Well, that's how it appeared to me, anyway. It was at least as big as Wal-Mart, for sure.

"Jesus," Sam said again, and I had to laugh. "Can you imagine trying to keep up with this inventory? Arlene would definitely quit."

We wandered through the aisles. There was too much to make sense of any of it. I stopped by the wind chimes and tested out a few. I decided, as I did every time, that in the long run they'd annoy me. While Sam stopped to marvel over a model train display, I passed up an entire aisle of "I love my (breed of dog)" gear, ranging from bumper stickers to aprons. Instead, I stopped by a selection of fancy gardening gizmos, briefly considered what Gran might enjoy, and came to the conclusion she'd find all of them extraneous annoyances, mere things to manage.

In the end, Sam and I wandered aimlessly through the miles and miles of aisles. Even the squashed coin machine disappointed, requiring a full quarter for squashing instead of the usual penny. That was a rip-off and definitely wouldn't fit in my squashed coin folder, which I'd started before my parents had died. Ultimately, we were saved by the flashing lights of our pager, which I was very glad I hadn't accidentally set down anywhere; it would have taken years to re-locate it.

Climbing upstairs, I confirmed something I thought I'd noticed earlier.

"It stinks," I told Sam.

"You smell that too?" He seemed surprised.

"Yeah. It's like rotten eggs."

"Right," he agreed, though I felt hesitation in his mood.

It wasn't a strong smell, but it lurked insistently in the background of everything. I wondered whether they had a sewage problem. Or maybe it was the intermingled smell of so many foods. Or maybe it was a preservative or some other chemical in the food.

Whatever. It stank.

We were seated in a booth, one of a line of them that stretched on forever. The woman who seated us gave us our instructions and went over the basic layout of the stations, but she said it all so quickly, I could only smile and nod politely. And then she was gone, leaving Sam and me looking at each other.

"I guess that means we can go up," he said.

We both stopped by the prime rib carving station—tonight was prime rib night—and then went separate ways to compare reports. I felt that jolt of excitement again as I considered all of the choices. But seeing them spread out in steaming tubs under bright warming lights, row upon row, curbed my appetite. I took some fried shrimp pieces, as well as a pork dish with some kind of sauce, and then sampled some of the dishes Sam serves. Pork and sauerkraut was one of my favorites.

"Prime rib's all right," Sam said a bit grumbly, once we were both seated again.

"It's a bit cold, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but it's really hard to keep it warm."

"My shrimp is bad," I said, showing him the overcooked piece with too much breading.

He examined it and nodded.

"And this potato filling stinks," I said, holding up a chunk of the gluey mass.

"Oh yeah," he readily agreed. "They over-beat it. Lafayette taught me that."

"But this sauce on the pork is good." I gave him a piece. "The pork is tough and dry, but what's in that sauce? A sweet onion, maybe."

"Some kind of spiced apple and onion. With spices like cloves and cinnamon."

We both agreed it would make a nice special on the menu, but that no one would be looking for it on a regular basis. Patrons of the tavern wanted tradition.

Our conversation went on that way, through several trips into the Food Cave, as Sam and I started calling it. My appetite wasn't so great, in large part because of the smell. And also, the people around me weren't entirely happy. I didn't know how to explain it to Sam without outright acknowledging my telepathy.

"I think there's a lot of excitement," I tried, "but not a lot of happiness."

"I'm pretty disgusted with myself," Sam agreed, leaning back and rubbing his stomach.

"Yeah, there's plenty of that going around." In a town called Intercourse, fabled for its indulgences, this was an outright orgy. The vamps had nothing on the humans in this joint.

But I thought there was more to it, too. Part of it was the attitude of paying customers wanting to get their money's worth. We'd encountered that plenty at the tavern. On top of that, faced with so many choices, diners seemed compelled to keep going without really enjoying anything. They were always considering what they wanted next.

"I don't think this is a stop-and-smell-the-roses kind of place," I said.

Sam laughed. And then he leaned against the booth, stretched his arms out across the top of his seat and scanned the room, looking at nothing in particular. I read contentment from him. "I'm good with this," he finally said.

"Yeah, you're all right," I agreed. And at that moment, I was so happy for him, I wanted to reach across the table and give him a hug. I was happy for myself too, having just had a terrible, lovely meal with a handsome man. Who was my boss.

If I could have ended my evening right then and there, I could have counted my day a happy one. But I'd left my pay check at work, so I stopped in briefly to get it. I was no sooner in the door when a vampire suddenly showed up.

No one else seemed to notice him, at least not directly. I read unease from a couple of customers, but not in direct acknowledgement that there was a vampire in the room. Sam was in his office taking care of phone messages, I presumed. He approached Arlene first, who pointed him in my direction.

"You're Sookie?" he smiled broadly.

"Yes?"

"I'm Harlen."

"Hello. Nice to meet you." I inclined my head, at the same time twisting my hands together to stop them from going on handshake autopilot.

"What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me if Bill's here."

_Bill?! _It was a good thing I was schooled in keeping my face straight and playing it dumb. "Bill…?"

"Yes. Is he here tonight?" Harlen had an insistent smile that nearly matched my own.

"Feel free to look around."

"I'm looking for Bill the vampire," Harlen persisted.

"The dining room's that way." I pointed. "Have you checked in there?"

"No, I don't believe he's in there."

"I'm sorry I can't help you."

"Gee, that's too bad." Harlen appeared to be only mildly disappointed. "All right, then. I won't take up any more of your time." He nodded pleasantly. Mr. Congeniality. "Tell Bill I was here, all right?"

Before I could come up with an answer, he quickly said goodbye and left quietly, without anyone else taking note.

Leaving me with a whole lot of thinking to do.


	10. Nothing to Sneeze At

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.**  
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><p><strong>Nothing to Sneeze At<strong>

I was surprised the next morning when I woke to a day that had already opened up and bloomed. The sun was warm and high. Birds were singing. Traffic was cruising. I heard a car slow, which probably meant my Amish neighbors were out working the field across the street.

Glancing at the clock, I saw it was ten AM, an indulgent treat. I stretched out long and lean under my covers, wriggled my toes, pressed my palms against the headboard. I yawned, drawing in clean, fresh air. Soon I'd need to close up the house, wrestle the screens out of their tracks and replace them with storm windows, a job that always required help from Jason. But until then, until the last possible moment…I breathed deeply again.

In spite of all of the activity outside, the house itself was quiet, settled and weighted. I always imagined this place had lodged here in the bank, time moving on around it, digging it in deeper. Reaching out tentatively with my mind, I discovered Gran was still sleeping, which made me relieved that she was getting the extra rest. I'd been so worried about her.

Abruptly, I sat up, unwilling to let that thought take its course at this moment. Unfortunately, another troubling thought immediately took its place…

Last night Bill hadn't shown up.

In fact, the last I'd seen of him, he'd disappeared at vampire speed while Gran and I were gawking at a few years' stash of squirrel booty. I hadn't worried at first, figuring he'd had to stay clear of Gran. Frankly, I'd needed some space from him too. But then the vampire named Harlen had appeared out of nowhere, wondering where he was.

There were a few troubling things about Harlen. First off, he knew of the connection between Bill and me. Second, he knew some details about me, such as my name and place of work. And third, he didn't seem to know where Bill was either.

The strange thing about that was he hadn't seemed concerned, but simply interested in him. "Tell Bill I was here," he'd said with some degree of casual confidence, which sounded to me like he fully expected Bill to come waltzing in at any moment. Maybe he knew more about Bill than I did.

Maybe he knew him _quite well_.

Angered, I kicked my covers off. I wasn't about to play second fiddle to anyone. _Tell Bill I was here. _The nerve! Since when had I become a vampire message service? Come to think of it, maybe the message was more for me than for Bill. The nerve!

And if Harlen knew, who else knew? It sounded like Bill hadn't been careful enough, which made me wonder why I'd put myself out with all of my sneaking.

I had a couple of words I would have liked to have shared with Bill at that moment. The truly frustrating thing was that I had no good way of contacting him. No cell phone. No place of residence. I could try Fangtasia, but maybe I'd get Bill in trouble…

No…No. It wasn't time to take that step yet. Eric was a scary vampire.

And that's where I was stuck. Waiting. At least for now. But there was no way I was sitting still. I got up and put my body in motion. I started up a full pot of coffee, put some bread in the toaster, and rummaged in the fridge for whatever homemade preserves Gran had opened. She was trying to use up last year's canned goods, so today I had my choice—pumpkin butter, peach honey butter, or strawberry-rhubarb preserves. I picked all three. See that? My day was already looking up again.

While the coffee was brewing, I headed outside to grab the paper from the delivery box. Passing by the smokehouse, I remembered I'd need to call Jason and carve out some time to clean out the walnuts and other debris. On the return trip down the bank, I happened to notice that the barn door was ajar—darn latch seemed to be stuck—and wedged it closed with a cinder block to keep out animals.

By the time I got my toast fixed and poured my coffee, Gran was wandering into the kitchen, old and bleary-eyed.

"Good morning," I started to say, but a sneeze came out instead. And then another one.

"Gesundheit. A sneeze before breakfast," she said, nodding her head toward my uneaten toast, "means company's coming." Her voice was groggy and unenthused. Her thoughts hadn't woken up yet, murmuring a low, sleepy buzz.

"May I get you some coffee?"

She sighed heavily. "Not today, dear. Thank you. I get it so." She pressed her fist to her chest, paused as if gathering energy, and then reached up high into the cupboard. "Maybe I'll try some herbal tea instead. Don't we still have some in here?"

"I'll get it for you. Have a seat."

She slumped down, slightly defeated for a brief moment before shaking it loose and reaching for the paper. I heard her rummaging through it as I was filling the teapot.

"Ach! Look at that!" She'd livened up quickly. "What fangs!"

Gran flashed the front page at me. "He'd best keep them under wraps, ain't not?"

It was a good thing I was schooled in steadying my response, or I would have dropped the kettle straight to the floor.

Right there, on the front page of the Bird-in-Hand Bugle, was an extra large photo of Eric. His fangs bared, a hint of a smile curved the corners of his mouth with an expression that said, "I could devour you." I myself had been the recipient of that smile at the farmer's market. I looked more closely.

Judas! That _was me_!

There was the back of my shoulder, anyway, shot from behind me. There was Sarah, her head turned toward Eric, displaying her Kapp. And there was Eric, facing the camera. From this angle, he looked like he was about to dine on an Amish woman.

Oh, shit.

There was a splashy headline and long story next to him—they hadn't conserved any space.

"Trouble in Paradise," Gran read aloud. "Ach, that's a tired line if I ever heard one." She took a moment to read while I continued getting out a cup and teabag. "Apparently Jim Collins had a hatred for vampires. His wife left him just after they came out of the closet."

I passed by, peeking over Gran's shoulder to see whether I could catch anything else about the photo or the story. As little as a week ago, I would have said, "That's him, Gran! That's the vampire I saw at the farmer's market." But since my night at Fangtasia…

She glanced up at me.

"Sookie, what's a fang banger?"

I was grateful for the distraction. "Remember we saw it on Sally Jesse?" I'd had an unpleasant experience probing the minds of fang bangers, but I had to remember that episode in particular. "They're vampire groupies. People who try to get in close with vampires."

"Do they want to become vampires?"

"I think some of them do. Or at least they like to flirt with danger and the idea of being turned. I'm sure they also like the sex and blood too."

Gran put down the paper and seemed to be considering. Finally, she asked, "Is Jason a fang banger?"

"No, Gran," I laughed nervously, my own hidden relationship with a vampire weighing on my mind. "Jason has enough…" I struggled to find the right word, not even certain myself. Sex was a big part of it, for sure, but not all. I admit I'd wondered about sex with a vampire once or twice. Okay, maybe more. I began again. "He has _enough_ in the human world."

Gran's tired eyes seemed to awaken to full alert mode. "And you think these _fang bangers_ don't have _enough_?"

"Well…" I floundered, finding myself in even deeper waters, trying to back peddle the hell out of there. "I don't know exactly why they're in it," I finally answered. That was the truth, fair enough.

"But you think they're looking for something else? Something they're missing?"

"Yes, Gran," I said, perturbed with her unusually persistent line of questioning and her motivation, which was blatantly more than about Jason and touched on one of my longstanding sore spots. But more importantly, it would have been the moment to let her in on what it was like for me to be around a vampire, to let her know how lovely it was to have his silence.

And I was mad as hell that I couldn't. Mad I had to keep so many secrets from Gran, especially when it seemed that Bill hadn't done such a good job with his own concealment. For not the first time that morning, I wished he were there right then, so I could take all of my madness out on him. Only as I thought about it more, I realized that at this hour, daylight would get the first crack at him before I'd even have a chance.

Roughly, I pulled a spoon out of the jar Gran kept on the counter. I didn't know why she stored them that way since all of her other utensils were stashed in a drawer. Just habit, I guessed. But she placed them with the handle side down, which always annoyed me because then it was difficult to keep the spoon end clean. I set to stirring a bit of sugar into her tea, probably making more noise than I needed to. Gran was watching me, I knew. I placed her cup in front of her without meeting her eyes before pouring myself another cup of coffee.

Gran returned to the paper. "It doesn't say anything directly about his ex-wife having relations with vampires. There's no mention that she had an affair with _anyone_. But it says that Jim Collins had written some complaints on a blog about vampires. Apparently the account has been closed; no one can access it directly anymore. Also, his neighbors commented that he'd been acting oddly."

Oh, man. What a bad time for a vampire to wind up on the front page of the paper, in this kind of compromising position with an Amish woman, which of course I knew was just an illusion. Who in the world had taken this photo?

Gran was quiet as she read more. And then suddenly she folded up the paper and tossed it across the table. "Puh! That's horse pucky!"

I could feel her anger brewing.

"That photo and that story ain't got nothin' to do with each other. It's irresponsible reporting. I'd like to give them a piece of my mind. Who wrote this?" She grabbed at the paper again. "Is this Errol?" She rubbed her gnarled hands over her face. "And that reminds me I need to stop by the newspaper office."

"What for?"

"The holiday home tour for the Gardener's Guild. I need to pick up an advertising form."

"I can do it for you."

"You working late?"

I nodded. "Aren't you going in to the firehouse today?"

"Oh! I forgot! Yes! You were going to take me, weren't you?"

I nodded again. "Yep, and Jason said he'd bring you home. I'll call and remind him."

"I best get ready or I'll be late."

Gran was never one to go back on her word or do anything half shoddy. She was headed to the firehouse today to help the Paradise Accountability Committee, a gathering of various community groups, both English and Amish, who'd come together to organize and distribute the astounding contributions—condolences, words of encouragement, money, school supplies, toys, you name it—that had been pouring into the community of Paradise ever since the shooting. After some initial chaos, driven mostly by the absolute surprise and astonishment over how the rest of the _world_ had responded, the base of operations had been established at the firehouse.

On the way there, Gran gave me directions to Town & Farm News, which published and distributed the daily Bird-in-Hand Bugle as well as a weekly farming publication and a monthly community advertiser.

"Take the hind way. I think that's best."

"Okay."

"Do you know where Dreibelbiss Mill Road crosses Route 786 at the old Beartown Church?"

"Yes."

"Go left there, past that dairy bar…the one with the peacock and the mini golf course…what's it called?"

"Lucky Licks."

"Ja. Go past there a ways. Maybe another mile or two, just past the covered bridge, where the road bends around the corner.

"Okay."

"I think that there's called Miller Road."

"Right where there's usually a sign advertising fresh eggs."

"Right. I mean, turn left there.

"Didn't you used to buy coxcomb from a lady back there?"

"I did! I wonder what happened to her? Barbara started growing them, and then the Guild didn't need to buy them from her anymore."

"Do I go past her place?"

"Ja, by another mile or so. Watch that road, dear, it's a real turny one. Somebody hit a cow not too long ago."

I'd actually heard about that incident because Andy Bellefleur had gotten called into sorting it out, and he'd grumbled quite a bit about the best use of his time.

"The road gets all where there's a pond on your right. And just to your left, you'll see a gravel driveway that slopes up to the left. Follow that to the first set of buildings on your right. It's the building with the hedges out front."

I nodded, feeling another sneeze come on.

"Gesundheit!" Gran said as I sneezed, driving toward the firehouse. She reached in her purse and pulled out a clean, but battered tissue that smelled like menthol and White Shoulders, the scented talcum powder she favored.

"Is it ragweed season, I wonder," Gran mused aloud.

"I think it's late for that," I answered, sneezing again, thinking that the worst of Sam's seasonal allergies seemed to be over.

"Gesundheit!" she repeated, handing me yet another tissue and sending me back years in my development. Over the years, Jason and I had counted a lot on Gran's purse.

"Go get me my pocketbook," she'd say whenever we'd come home from school with a worn pair of sneakers, a new supply list, or a field trip permission slip. I can only imagine how much we taxed her pocketbook and stretched it to its very limits. However she'd managed it, for us kids, the only time her pocketbook truly let us down was on Sunday mornings, in the middle of one of Reverend Collins's insufferably long sermons, when the only thing it would produce were colorfully-wrapped, mean little bits of nose-burning mints and licorices.

"Look at that," Gran muttered, snapping the magnetic closure. "Stitching's come loose."

I made a mental note to buy her a new purse for Christmas.

Nearing the firehouse, it was hard not to notice a large group of people holding picket signs, standing on the sidewalk just across the street from the building. They were an ordinary-looking crowd, the kind you might bump into any public event around here, except for the emotions rolling off of them—a toxic mix of hatred and spite and meanness.

"Is there a strike?" Gran wondered aloud.

"Devil's minions," I read out loud.

"The earth was made for God's creatures," Gran added. "What's going on?"

A riled up crowd like that is hard to understand, and let me tell you, they were plenty riled up, so I wasn't getting much from them other than a lot of heavy emotion slathered on thick. Plus I was being extra careful as we drove by to ensure I didn't hit any of them with my car.

"Vampires corrupt," another sign said.

"Well I'll be dipped," Gran muttered under her breath.

I wasn't about to drop Gran off here in front of this angry crowd. I could have gone around the block to approach the firehouse from the opposite side of the street, but a large group mingled there too.

"Why are they _here_ of all places?" Gran mused aloud.

I pointed to the gathering to the side of the firehouse, which I had realized were reporters and camera crews. They'd been cleared from the immediate front of the building, to allow for emergencies. "Publicity," I guessed, coming at once to a conclusion I didn't like much. These protestors, it seemed, had seized a golden opportunity to make use of a hungry press, now beginning to see the end of the Amish shooting story.

'Aye, yi, yi." Gran was shaking her head in disbelief.

I circled the block once, then again, quickly realizing parking would be impossible to find. The municipal lot, several blocks away was crammed full. Even the commercial lot, located behind a string of businesses catering to the tourist crowd looked full, with cars circling.

"Just drop me off," Gran prompted, an edge of irritation in her voice.

"Not in the middle of that scene." Sensing Gran's impatience, I did something I never ever do: I double-parked about a block down from the firehouse, at a section of the street that was slightly wider. I jumped out and ran around to help her out.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Gran was saying, as we walked toward the entrance, only she got bumped by someone backing into her, and would have fallen if I hadn't had a firm grasp of her arm.

"Excuse us!" I snapped at the man. He was pushing a microphone toward Gran.

"Ma'am? Are you here to volunteer at the firehouse?"

"Yes I am."

"What do you think about the allegation that vampires caused Jim Collins to go on his shooting rampage?"

Gran's eyes widened at the blunt and direct way the reporter had phrased his question. In the confusion of the moment, I heard her thinking, too, about the way his breath smelled like mints and cigarettes. Also, she thought he should be wearing a tie. I'd call that three strikes against him. I was surprised she'd even entertained the idea of answering him, but Gran has a temper under certain situations, and hers had been stirred up by a press that she thought had jumped to conclusions without any credible evidence.

"Ach! It's poppycock!" she sputtered. "Poppycock!" And then she moved on.

"Do you care to elaborate?" the reporter was calling out stupidly.

Gran had clearly said her business. "No thank you," she called over her shoulder, waving a dismissive hand in his direction.

I saw Gran to the door, ensuring that the scene inside the firehouse was a much calmer, safer place. A few other volunteers had made their way through the crowd outside; it seemed like they had only a small group, without any Amish folks today. Bins of mail sat stacked. Once I saw Maxine Fortenberry, who gave me a little wave, I felt better about leaving her.

I hustled out to my car, which didn't seem to be clogging up the traffic too much. I was putting on my seatbelt when I noticed the bright yellow flyer on the passenger's seat, which apparently someone had slipped through the window opening. "Thou shalt not kill," was the message. And underneath the lettering was a crude image of a vampire with his fangs sunk into the bared neck of an Amish woman, her limp body draped in his arms.

Immediately, I felt violated that someone had been in my car with this baloney. Disgusted, I grabbed the flyer and crumbled it up in a ball. I would have ripped it to shreds, too, only I needed to get a move on. I was just about to pull out into traffic when a sharp rap on the passenger side window startled me.

There was a man standing at my car, smiling, though his smile conveyed more coldness than any warmth. An old prickly chill drew up my spine.

He looked straight into my eye.

"God bless you," he said.


	11. Lost and Found

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.**  
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><p><strong>Lost and Found<strong>

"God bless you," the man standing next to my car said.

He wore a polo shirt with an embroidered spiky sun logo and stood with a casual, but assuming posture, claiming his single square of sidewalk. I had the creeping, creepy feeling that by _God bless you_, he'd meant less _May the good light of the Lord shine down on you _and more _You're gonna need it, honey_.

For one strange and awful moment, I froze there in plain sight of this man. From behind, a thin, but steady stream of cars slowed, then eased around me, adding to the clutter and whir in my head. In front of me, the block of protesters on one side and reporters on the other vibrated with a mess of anger and excitement. I'd have to drive straight through them to get out of here. I wished I could do it with my eyes scrunched and my hands over my ears. I wished that would help.

But then, seeing the flash of yellow—the crumpled flyer—shook me out of my funk with a surge of anger.

I didn't have to sit here and take anybody's propaganda.

I turned away from him—he was still wearing that cold smile—and checked for traffic over my shoulder. Only as I nudged out into the flow, yet another wave of doubt hit me. Could I leave Gran here? Was she safe?

I had no choice but to keep driving, pushed along by traffic behind me. I slowed down as I neared a group of women with children in strollers and wagons and even running lose, carrying signs themselves. I thought it was bad judgment bringing children into something they couldn't possibly understand. And I worried someone was going to get hit by a car.

"Only Jesus rose from the dead," their signs read.

Well, that was plain wrong, I thought, remembering the story of Jesus bringing Lazarus back to life. Strangely enough, their lack of understanding of the Bible made me feel better. There was nothing dangerous here. Just a group of ordinary people—such as these women and children—with a misguided message and an extremely tacky way of promoting it. Surely no one, or at least not many people, would be dumb enough to follow them.

I decided to keep driving out of town. Before long, the road running through the center of Paradise opened up to the countryside, its rise and fall of farmlands and farmhouses repeating themselves over and over in a way that could be frustratingly mind-numbing. Today, it lulled and beguiled; I had the sense I could get lost here, one road blending into the next, looping back and forth without ever brushing up against the rest of the world. Relaxed, my mind opened. I thought about the way I'd frozen, pinned in place by that foolish man with the flyer.

And then suddenly, the Hexenmeister was in my head. Or I was in his head. I mean, it was me, starring in the Hexenmeister's home mental video of my crime. _If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your flaws. _I shook myself to get a grip, but before I could stop them, his images from that night flowed…

…_there I went again with all of my curves packed into a skin-tight dress with a straggly cord of hair snaking down my back. I picked my way across the gravel parking lot, skulking…skulking…skulking still…until suddenly my arms swinging, I brought the gag down on Camo Girl, yanking and twisting viciously. She and I slammed down on our backs, my face twisted and feral. Mean and vicious. When Long Shadow reared up, there was little difference in our menace…_

…_and then at that moment, I switched violently to Camo Girl's head, who overpowered everything else about that moment, driving into my spine her blind and confused terror and disbelief._

By this time, I'd pulled over by the side of the road to take big gulps of air. It smelled of damp gravel and mud mixed with motor oil and warm blacktop, unpleasant and strangely out-of-place on a country road, distinct enough to draw my attention. I was near a farmhouse, where an Amish woman was hanging wash on her clothesline stretching from the base of her roof to a spot high on a tall utility-like pole.

I'd acted to save her, hadn't I? And I'd rescued Long Shadow from being drained. I hadn't tried to get anyone killed. In fact, I'd tried to convince the woman to leave, to run while she could. It had been her greed, her desperate desire to escape with Long Shadow in a vial that had been her own demise, not me.

My conscience was nearly ready to ease off when the Hexenmeister's movie flickered through my head again, so compelling. Hadn't I been itching for a fight that night? Plus I'd been partly responsible for leading Long Shadow into that fix, and if he had died, I would have come under certain suspicion. My own life would have been at risk. I didn't want to die. I'd done what I could to stay alive. Right or wrong.

I'd come full circle to that unsettled spot, and no amount of rationalizing was going to solve it at the moment. Putting it out of my mind was the only way to go for now. "No thinking about Bill, either," I told myself sternly, giving myself a little mental slap. I shelved it all, the whole kit and caboodle. I took in another gulping breath and exhaled, pushing it all out, out, out. The woman hanging up clothes had paused her chore and cast a glance in my direction before resuming. The pulley system on her clothesline rasped and squeaked as she tugged on it, sending a stream of limp black pants up into the air, hanging and twisting like bats.

I put the car into drive and resumed my trip, resolving to keep my mind sturdy and focused; soon, I passed Lucky Licks and decided I'd stop for ice cream on my return trip. I spent some time thinking about whether I'd get chocolate chip or rocky road. I passed a field of cows, around ten total. All were lying down except one. "Looks like it's going to rain," Gran would have said, referring to old weather folklore. "Do they want rain?" she would have asked next, prompting for the official weatherman forecast. I amused myself by wondering whether one cow still standing meant a 90 percent chance of rain. Maybe my thoughts weren't sophisticated enough for city folks, but at the moment, it sure beat the alternatives.

By the time I came to the driveway marked with a Town & Farm News sign, I was feeling like my normal self again, so to speak. I followed its angled path up a gentle slope, through a wooded area, and then to a wide, cleared space, mostly devoid of any landscaping. There were three bland industrial-looking buildings here, all long, narrow, and sided with sheets of aluminum the color of washed-out work khakis. Along the side of one, several blue Town & Farm News trucks were parked in a row, in addition to five other miscellaneous vehicles. Coarse weeds, tall and spiky, sprouted at the edges, as though they had tunneled underground looking for the first available light.

The first building, situated to the right of the entrance road, was the most dressed-up, though the efforts were minimal. A row of basic evergreen hedges—at least neatly trimmed—bordered the entry. Someone had recently mulched a circular flower bed around a signpost and added a sparse smattering of mums, pansies, and even a miniature fake scarecrow, the kind that looks more cute and sweet than frightening.

I parked in a space marked _Visitors _next to three other cars. The front door jingled when I opened it to step into an office, where a long counter spanned the width of the room. For as bland as the outside looked, the inside had a well-established appearance, with layers of collected items that had built up over time. Two cluttered desks and a number of file cabinets and tables held items you'd expect to see in an office space, as well as some surprising ones: accordion files of stuffed folders, a stack of four beach towels and a bath mat, cups of pens and pencils, a Scooby Doo piggy bank. In various places, comic strips were tacked up with magnets. _Bless this mess, _one of them read. I could sense movement and mental activity elsewhere. There was a ball of it, probably coming from the room immediately adjacent to this entry space, the first room on the left from the center hallway that appeared to run the full length of the rest of the building. I guessed there were additional offices and rooms on both sides.

"Please ring for service," a sign said next to an old metal dinger bell. I resisted dinging it—even though it would have been fun—since the bells on the front door probably had already signaled my arrival. Sure enough, a woman exited one of the rooms on the right.

"May I help you?" she asked, her pace slowing as soon as she saw me. She was disappointed in me, thinking for probably the hundredth time that no one interesting ever walked through the front door. I was tempted to make her day memorable by sharing aloud one of the stray thoughts I'd plucked from her mind—that on occasion she'd picked up random customers and clients to have sex with them in the back of one of the delivery trucks—but then I decided that that might be the least interesting thing about her. Plus that little parlor trick of mine always goes over about as well as a lead balloon.

So I smiled instead, reminding myself of the boredom I'd felt too, here in rural P-A. "Yes, I'm looking to post an ad for a community group."

She paused before reaching for a folder, which she opened, shuffled through, and closed before reaching for a second, and then a third. While she shuffled, I took a look at her copper coloring—hair and skin to match—and wondered how she'd come by such an interesting look.

"You know, you can do this easily online," she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. I decided her hair color probably came out of a bottle. Ditto the tan.

"Here it is." She waved a form that clearly had been photocopied a gazillion times. And then reaching for a second paper that was handy, she added, "And this sheet will give you the pricings, depending on the frequency of the ads."

I scanned it quickly, surprised at how costly it would be for the Gardener's Guild to advertise. "So these rates are for non-profit community groups?"

"Yep."

"And this is the form the Gardener's Guild needs to fill out for their Holiday Homes Tour fundraiser?"

Copper actually rolled her eyes. "No," she huffed. "For that, you need the Holiday Happenings form." She started shuffling again, and by the time she was finished, she had another pile of folders spread on the counter and one sorry-looking form. Then she reached for a second rate sheet. "There," she said with finality, as though her tone alone would push me out the door. "Anything else?"

At that moment, the ball of mental energy I'd "heard" when I'd first walked in suddenly erupted into hard anger. I heard muffled voices too. Two men having an argument. They were very hard to read.

"No thank you," I finally replied, distracted. "I'm all set."

She nodded and turned, clearly glad to be done with me.

I couldn't help but overhear the anger coming from that back room. A wall of framed 5x7 Amish photos in color had caught my attention too. I wandered over to admire them. The photos depicted Amish scenes, mostly of everyday life. Some were simple landscape shots, such as a string of laundry stretched across a blanket of snow, or a field of ornamental squashes. Some had a bit of an edge to them. There was a pack of young scholars, probably out at recess, making funny faces at the camera. Another one captured a young boy smiling shyly for the camera while the girl next to him made rabbit ears over his head, her face smiling devilishly. Eric's picture, the one that had been splashed on the front page of the paper just today, was displayed too. I had to admit it was a fine shot of his fangy smile.

As I admired the collection, the commotion from the office spilled into the hallway with a loud bang of a door thrown open. "I had to do it," one of the men said angrily. And then a man stormed into the reception area. He looked to be about in his forties. I hadn't been able to hear his thoughts earlier, but he was fuming so hard now, I picked up the words "shoestring budget" repeated over and over in his head. I felt bad for him.

"Errol," Copper said, nudging her head in my direction, causing him to stop short.

"Excuse me." He nodded politely before returning to his shoestring budget rumination.

I assumed he was Errol Clayton, the man who wrote about half of the stories and managed the budget for the Bird-in-Hand Bugle. I also assumed he didn't really want my attention, so I merely nodded in return and respectfully turned away from him. Whomever he was arguing with was still in the office, his thoughts a snarly mass of dark emotions. It must have been a whopper of a fight. I waited for Errol to barge out the front door and pull away in his car before I gave Copper a parting wave and thank you.

Once outside, I glanced around this curious place that seemed to have shrunk too small for its britches. The parking lot was more dirt than gravel, and since it hadn't rained in a while, the weeds that had managed to poke out along the edges were coated with a fine, powdery dust. I stopped to listen. I could tell there was a handful of people in the opposite building, the one with the delivery trucks, but this one, with the reception area, seemed mostly empty as far as I could tell, other than the activity in the front office. A third building, behind the office building, seemed abandoned completely.

I was about to return to my car when a rustling noise coming from the weeds made me jump. And then suddenly, a black-and-white cat was scuttling toward me, its paws fumbling with a mouse. It pounced, missed, scrabbled futilely, and then abruptly gave up, flicking its tail and looking askance before sitting down to casually lick his front paws.

I knelt down. "You're a sorry sight." The cat, long and lanky—scrawny, even—looked like he had seen more meat on his bones in finer times. His fur, all black, save for a white patch on his chest, was now coated with dust and tangled with burs. He regarded me coolly before letting out a _rowr_ and then trotting toward me.

"You poor thing." I stroked his unkempt fur, making every effort to avoid the big clumps. He had no collar or tags. As far as I could tell, he was abandoned, and hadn't done a good job of it on his own. Maybe once upon a time, he'd even enjoyed the luxuries of a home, but now he'd clearly fallen on hard times. "Who left you out here all by yourself?"

The cat had quickly given up its cool routine, and there was no doubt he was desperate, rubbing against me back and forth. He was practically starving. I couldn't just leave him here.

"I've got a nice, big barn that needs a kitty like you. You want to come home with me?"

He batted at me.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was trying to tell me something. "What's your name?" I mused aloud. "You don't look like a Tiger. What about Felix?" The cat sniffed and turned away. "What's the matter? Too common for you?" I gave him a scratch behind the ears, and though he still turned from me, he fired up the rumblings of a purr in his throat. "How about Bob?" I suggested, thinking it was the perfect name for a cat with a missing identity. I stroked him again.

His back arched, and that's when I realized I wasn't dealing with a Bob. This cat was female. I stroked her a few more times. "How about Bobbi?" I offered.

She seemed to relax, though really, who was I kidding? What this cat needed most was some kitty kibble. "I have the perfect home for you, and I promise there's no big, drooling dog there anymore." I remembered with a pang how sad we'd all been when we'd finally had to put Buck down. But now it would be really nice having a kitty to fill the big space. Once I got some meat on her bones, she might make a good mouser.

And then suddenly I realized I'd been squatting in the middle of a parking lot, talking out loud to a stray cat. Maybe this would be my lot in life, I thought somewhat bitterly. If Bill wasn't already gone for good, out cavorting with Harlen, eventually he'd have to leave, his mission with Sarah completed. My little bout with excitement would be all done, a mere blip in my life. Then it would just be Gran and me. I'd start collecting stray cats until eventually I'd have enough to qualify as the cat lady of Bird-in-Hand. I wondered how many I'd need. With all the farms around here, a litter of cats was standard, so I'd have a way to go. But eventually I'd get there. And then who'd care what other people thought of me? I'd have my cats to keep me happy.

I stood and started walking to my car, happy that Bobbi was following, almost trotting like a dog. She jumped into the front passenger seat and seemed unfazed by the slam of car door and the start of engine. In fact, she curled into a contented ball and closed her eyes.

I stopped by the PennSupreme, skipping Lucky Licks without regret. I grabbed several different kinds of cat food, along with a brush and some flea product and took a look at their bulletin board for community news, which reminded me I'd need to put out a "cat found" ad. There was a "dog missing" flyer and another one advertising guitar lessons. I lifted up a town announcement for fall yard waste burning regulations—reminding me of all of those walnuts—and came face to face with a photograph of a smiling woman.

Maudette Pickens.

Missing.


	12. Gran Says Her Piece

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.**  
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><p><strong>Gran Says Her Piece <strong>

Maudette's smiling face mugged back at me, her cheeks plump, her squinting eyes outlined with makeup, oddly detaching them from the rest of her face. Her hair was fancy, done up in a complicated arrangement, not the style she'd normally worn down at shoulder length. She'd been on her way to a special occasion from the looks of things, though truth be told, she'd never be someone most people would consider especially attractive. In fact, she'd always been a bit lumpy and awkward. I shifted the town notice about burning off to the side, covering up an advertisement for Regional Championship Wrestling instead, and ensured that Maudette's picture was on top.

I couldn't remember when I'd last seen Maudette. She'd never come into the tavern that I recalled. She and Jason had never spent any significant amount of time with each other. I didn't know any of her friends. The last time I'd seen her, I guessed, was on one of those hurried occasions when I'd darted in here to top off my tank or grab a gallon of milk. I'm sure I'd said hello. Maybe we'd chatted about the weather. Maybe Jason had come up as a topic of conversation, as he often does with women.

I drove home with niggling thoughts about Maudette on my mind. I wondered who was looking for her. And I hoped this was all a big mix-up. Maybe Maudette had run off with someone who cherished her. Or maybe Maudette had finally had enough with her day-to-day and had said "screw it all" to go look for greener pastures.

At home, I got Bobbi settled in the barnyard with a bowl of water and several refills in the food dish. She devoured everything I gave her—canned, semi-moist, and dry—until she walked away from the remaining handful of kibble. Then I left a message for Jason reminding him to pick up Gran and warning him about the demonstrators. Last but not least, I jotted a note for Gran about Bobbi, promising I'd keep her as an outdoor pet.

By the time I hopped in my car to drive to Virginville, my head was clear, and I was looking forward to my shift.

That didn't last very long.

The first hint that anything was wrong faced me squarely as soon as I entered the bar area. Mack Rattray turned his whole body on the bar stool to greet me, leering and tipping his bottle of beer in my direction. I probably wouldn't have paid any attention to Mack—he was always an asshole—if I didn't also notice the sniggering aimed at me. In the confusion of so many voices, I couldn't figure out whether they were laughing at the standard _Crazy Sookie _ridicule or something new. I glanced down, making sure my uniform was neat and tidy—it was—and grinned, looking for a sympathetic face. Behind the bar, Terry clearly wasn't having a good day himself judging by the scowl on his face. He didn't even glance in my direction, so focused was he on organizing and cleaning.

I ducked into Sam's office to stash my purse in his bottom desk drawer before heading to the dining room to check on table statuses. Dawn immediately passed by, grimacing under the weight of a huge platter of food for a party of twelve. I jumped at the opportunity for distraction.

"May I help?"

"Second platter's all set to go in the kitchen."

Sam was in there with Lafayette.

"Hi guys. I'm grabbing Dawn's food."

Sam gave a little wave. "You okay?"

"Sure." Squatting low to heft the weight onto my shoulder, I thought it was strange Sam was worried about whether I could lift a fully loaded tray. He'd shown the proper concern of an attentive boss, offering regular trainings on workplace safety, which to be honest, had made all of us roll our eyes a bit. But Sam had never questioned my abilities. Frankly, it was a point of pride for me—being able to manage and balance the heavy load—and kept my thighs and upper arms in sturdy shape. Plus not once had I ever dropped a tray.

And let me tell you, it's a mess to clean up when it happens.

Standing up under the bulky weight, which felt wonderfully grounding, I gave Sam a smile that was only partly artificial. He stopped his actions for the briefest of moments before returning a thin smile with a head shake of disbelief.

I was leaving the kitchen when Arlene came in. "There you are! I heard you got here."

"Yeah?"

She held the door and trailed beside me. Again, I got that odd feeling, but I was concentrating hard on weaving through tables. The distraction was one thing I appreciated about my job, after all.

"Let me know if I can do anything."

"Thank you." Realizing I needed a serving stand, I asked, "Would you mind?" I nodded in the direction of the folded one propped handily against the wall.

Arlene darted to open it and helped Dawn and me try to fit all of the platters and bowls on the table. The typical juggling act ensued as diners moved drinks, plates, utensils, napkins, and so forth. That squared away, I returned to the kitchen with Arlene to grab a basket of bread for a new table.

"You're handling this well," she said. "How's your grandmother?"

With no heavy tray on my shoulder, I stopped up right short. "Handling what?" I didn't bother to soften the sharp tone in my voice. I'd had enough concerns about Gran lately.

"You don't know?" she gasped. "Well, I just thought…" She was stalling, trying to figure out the nicest way to tell a bad piece of news. She didn't necessarily want to see my feelings get hurt, but maybe she was relishing the fact that she was the one who would get to tell me. I caught a flash of her imagining relating the scene to Rene.

Sam intervened. "I'll take it from here, Arlene."

A mixed jolt of surprise, annoyance, and jealousy spiked off Arlene. She'd always been suspicious that Sam favored me, and it irritated her to no end that she couldn't figure out why, even though she considered me a close friend.

"Sookie, let's go to my office." Sam gestured toward the door. To get there, we'd need to cut across the barroom floor to the opposite side and follow the hallway toward the restrooms. Terry, still puttering behind the bar, gave me a vacant look as we passed. At that particular moment, I felt connected to him, if only for the fact that he had his own business to attend to and didn't bother with anyone else's.

Sam sat at his desk and started clicking around on his computer. "Won't take long," he sighed, pulling up the website of the local news station.

By now, I was pretty certain of what was generally coming.

Sure enough, there was the reporter asking Gran what she thought of the allegation that vampires had caused Jim Collins to go on his shooting rampage. And there was Gran responding, "Ach! It's poppycock!" in her crackling, shrill voice, full of conviction and vehemence. Even I could see how that clip of tiny, stooped Gran offering up a catchy little phrase was irresistible, especially with all of the anti-vampire demonstrations going on. It seemed as though they'd missed her message, though.

"They're calling her a vampire sympathizer?" I asked Sam.

He nodded soberly.

"That's not exactly what she meant."

"It's hard to tell, cher." He reached for his mouse.

I groaned out loud and held a hand up to Sam's computer screen. "Enough. I've seen enough."

He started backpedaling. "You know I don't I think your Gran said anything wrong, right? But some of these news outlets are really...running with the story and making her look like..."

_The fool._ Neither of us said it out loud.

"You saw this, too, right?" He held up the Bugle with today's photo of Dine-on-Amish Eric.

I nodded.

Sam leaned away from his screen, settling into his duct-taped, squeaky chair. He gestured to one of the spare chairs near his desk.

I sank down. "Sorry to bother you with this during work hours."

"No bother. You let me know how I can help."

"Mind if I use your phone?"

He handed it to me. I considered calling Gran directly, but decided to dial Jason's cell instead.

"Sookie?!"

"How's Gran?"

"She's fine, no thanks to you. What the hell were you thinking dropping her off there like that?"

"I'm at work. I just wanted to make sure she's okay."

"Jesus, Sookie, she's all over the news."

"All righty, then. We'll talk later." I smiled and nodded at Sam, and then, as Jason was unleashing another tirade of cussing and yelling, I hung up.

"Tomorrow this will be yesterday's news, right?" I looked to Sam hopefully.

"I sure as hell hope so." Sam smiled, though his mood seemed wistful.

I didn't think I needed to explain Gran to Sam, but I thought it might help to share my burden with him. Almost as soon as I reached that decision, tears started to flow. He pushed a box of tissues in my direction.

"This whole story has gotten so carried away," I began, reaching for a tissue. "She simply thinks people are jumping to conclusions."

"The vampires have gotten pulled into it fast and deep," Sam agreed.

"But I know that part of the problem is that Gran doesn't always have the patience to explain herself." Who would have thought that Gran would have ever needed a PR rep?

I started crying even harder and reached for two more tissues, hoping I wouldn't have to blow my nose. Sam waited quietly while I gathered myself.

"I've been worried she isn't well," I finally said, which was the core of the matter, when I'd caught my breath and settled. "She's had a short fuse lately."

"Her health is failing?"

I hiccupped. "She got a clean bill of health recently, but her mood and energy level have been…off. Can't seem to get herself in gear unless she has coffee."

A new wave of tears almost came over me as I thought about the missing portion of this story, the part about my being in cahoots with a vampire behind her back. Or whatever the hell we were doing. I sat up in my chair and forced myself off that train of thought; if I started crying again, I'd have to resort to a very inelegant nose blow.

Sam gestured to his computer screen. "How's she handling all of this?"

"Jason says okay."

"That's good," Sam was nodding with satisfaction.

"Gran's still a tough cookie," I agreed. But her pride had been wounded—Gran had always enjoyed having a reputation as being an upstanding citizen—and I'd have to wait until tonight when I said goodnight to judge for myself how well she was handling it all. In the meantime, I'd be bothered by something else, something provoked by the one Amish-man-turned-vampire I did know. Maybe Sam couldn't help with _everything_, but there was something else I could pick his brain about, since he'd seemed willing to talk about it.

I met Sam's blue eyes. "It doesn't make much sense to me. Why would vampires target Amish folks? How could anyone buy that story?"

"It's not that I agree with them, but these demonstrators are saying things like vampires are on an anti-Christian campaign."

I thought about all the challenges we'd faced keeping the Hexenmeisters out of trouble at Fangtasia. "That doesn't sound like such a smart thing for them to do when they're trying to mainstream."

Sam paused for a moment, appraising me carefully. I couldn't hear exactly what he was thinking, but I could tell he was gathering his thoughts. "Have you ever heard of the Fellowship of the Sun?" he started.

I hadn't, but the man in the polo shirt immediately came to mind, of course. "Are they the group with the spiky sun logo? The ones holding the demonstration today?"

"Yes. That's them."

"All I know is what I saw at the firehouse." Up until today, my understanding of the word 'fellowship' had to do with church, with joining together with others at church to worship and be charitable, not hate. Or _Fellowship of the Ring._

"It looks like they've taken an interest in this story. About vampires and the Amish, I mean. And as usual, they've added their particular brand of spin to it."

'Spin' seemed an especially generous term. But maybe what interested me more was the way Sam was speaking as though he'd had some previous experience with them. "Do you know this group?"

He shook his head firmly. "Not directly. They're a southern group, very active in Texas. I have some friends who've seen them in action down there. But this is the first time…" Here he trailed off, his spoken words replaced by that ball of tangled emotion that is Sam. "Let's just say it looks like they've picked up some steam on this one."

"You think people will listen to this…" I fumbled for the word. I had a few possibilities choicer than 'poppycock,' though nothing that matched Gran's nice rhyming ring.

He hesitated. "Be careful, all right?"

Sam's mood was deadly serious. And coming from Sam, compelling too. I nodded, disquieted, as that image of Gran under the harsh security light popped into my head again. And I worried about Bill's safety. I wondered what a group like the Fellowship would do with a ready-made story like his. Amish man turned vampire. No spin needed.

I spent the rest of my shift at the tavern stone cold sober.

\/ \/

I didn't know what exactly I would find when I got home that night. If ever I had wanted our routine shaken up a bit, I guessed my wish had come true. The lights were on, as usual, and Gran was in bed, though still awake.

"Sookie?" she called from her room as soon as I stepped into the kitchen.

"Hi, Gran," I returned her greeting. Hanging up my coat in the small wardrobe inside the door, I noted with curiosity that Grandpa Mitchell's 12-gauge was stashed in there.

Crossing the room, I also noticed two empty beer bottles on the counter, meaning that Jason had been there for more than a drop-off. Poking my head inside Gran's doorway, I was surprised to see her patting Bobbi.

"You made a new friend."

"Such a dear, sweet, kitty," she cooed, half at me, half at Bobbi, looking supremely cozy and entitled next to her, not to mention decidedly better groomed.

Gran was a practical woman, not prone to flights of fancy, so letting an animal onto her tidy bed seemed a stretch for her. And though I couldn't quite say her linens were messy and disordered, the wrinkles marring the normally pristine quilt made me wonder whether she'd either been tossing and turning or playing a chase game with the cat.

We had lots to say to each other, which made Bobbi a most wonderful distraction. "I found her prowling around the parking lot at the newspaper offices, trying to catch a mouse. She was practically starving."

"Poor thing," she cooed again, this time directly at the cat. For a moment, she looked completely lost in thought, and then with a sudden, slight jerk of her body, she tugged her covers a little higher. The high, shrill sound of her singing voice broadcast loudly.

I braced myself and crumpled a little bit too, all at once. A new layer of tension had wedged between us, with both of us hiding things from the other.

"Come in and sit for a spell," she said to me, patting the side of her bed, and wriggling her feet to make room. Though her words were inviting, I knew she'd made more of an imperative than a request. Bobbi tensed and twitched, annoyed by the motion as I scooted onto the bottom corner. From this perspective, the heavy wood of her headboard dwarfed her.

"I'm sorry, Gran, about all of your troubles today."

"Ach." She waved her hands in dismissal. "By tomorrow, they will have moved onto something else. I'm glad I said my piece when I had the chance."

One thing was certain for sure: not many people, especially those of us bordering on poverty here in the middle of farmlands, get that kind of audience.

Gran's hands returned to stroking Bobbi, now purring loudly enough that I could hear her from the foot of the bed. She settled her head between her front paws and closed her eyes contentedly.

"There are still a lot of letters pouring in at the fire station," Gran continued.

"Did you have enough help sorting them?"

She nodded. "Ja. Almost too many people want to get involved. Mr. Norris was there, of course," she added, laughing a bit.

"Directing?"

She quietly laughed again, fondly. "Yes. Once a mayor, always a mayor. Of course, the fire chief wasn't too happy about that."

"I guess not."

"And somebody misplaced Maxine's alphabetized master list. I guess things got a bit re-organized last night when folks came in for their weekly Hasie."

Hasenpfeffer Night, when folks got together to play a card game, was still popular among the locals, young and old alike. At least as popular as Bingo.

"But then the reverend's wife passed out slices of Caroline Bellefleur's chocolate cake and smoothed everything over."

I laughed, imagining the whole scene—the little bit of chaos involved with everyone jockeying for position until they settled down enough to get to the real work. Gran had been in the middle of it all, right where she liked to be.

Her smile faded a bit. "All those people writing those letters…hundreds and hundreds of them. Most are amazed and in awe of the way the Amish community has forgiven Jim Collins."

"It's the same at the tavern, too."

Her smile disappeared completely.

"You know, Sookie, I've always said that any woman worth her salt will do what she has to." She waited and looked directly at me. The room seemed to have gotten extraordinarily quiet. Even Bobbi's purring had stopped. "I stand by that now."

I added to the quiet and held completely still, thinking about what she was saying. A lot of people had judged the Amish women's responses, either holding them up as some sort of Christian turn-the-other-cheek ideal or criticizing the fact that they did not fight back.

But really, what could they have done? Jim Collins was the one holding the guns.

_Take me first, _Sadie Dietrich had said_._

Was that what she'd had to do?

I fully expected Gran would have more to say.

Instead, she seemed to sink lower into her stack of pillows, the dark headboard looming even taller. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted to take a listen in on her. I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a spark of anger, wanting to know, wanting her to have some answers for once to some very old questions.

Only as I sat there wedged against the footboard, Gran's pillows looked like they might swallow her completely with one big toothless yawn. She'd had a long, eventful day. Now was not the time.

"I should let you get some sleep," I said, which cued her to yawn.

"Thank you, dear."

Bobbi barely stirred as I slipped off the bed and turned out Gran's light. "Gude Nacht, Gran."

"Night, Sookie. Sleep tight."

A bit of clean up needed to be faced in the kitchen. I straightened the coverlet on the day bed, tucked the empty beer bottles away in a case of empties out on the porch, shook out the throw rug, crocheted by Gran out of scraps of old fabric, and wiped off the table. Then, noticing the brush Gran had used on Tina, I swept up some cat hair and found a space for her food in one of the bottom cabinets.

All the while, the loose door on the wardrobe reminded me of the 12-gauge I guessed Jason had stashed there. Guns were nothing new to the family. Gramps had owned several that he'd kept well-maintained. Gran had used one of his shotguns to kill a snake every now and then. Of course Jason hunted, as nearly every male—and some females—from around these parts did. Doe season. Buck season. Small game. He'd even gotten his muzzle-loader and bow-hunting permits.

In the sixth grade, Jason and I had been required to take a hunters' safety course and pass an exam, necessary for any kind of hunting license. I'd had to shoot a .22 at the week-long, sixth grade sleep-away camp. I'd been a pretty good shot, in fact, though it wasn't my favorite thing to do. At least I hadn't whimpered, squealed, or cried when my turn had come up on the range. I allowed myself a bit of internal boasting over that fact, given that the rest of camp had been a disaster.

All things considered, having this gun stashed here now wasn't necessarily a bad idea, though it was probably overkill. I was still miffed at Jason, though, for holding me responsible for Gran's talking to a news crew—as if I _should _have or even _could _have stopped her.

Gran was an adult, fully capable of making her own decisions.

With everything straightened up, I wondered what to do next.

I puttered for a bit longer, straightening the throw pillows, re-folding the afghan, and squaring up the footrest with its chair. I picked up one of Gran's old Danielle Steele paperbacks and read a few pages before flicking on the TV. I browsed through the channels, looking for a familiar movie, something mindless. Nothing suited. I turned it off in a huff, and right on its heels followed another bout of irritation and worry. I had surely managed to stir up a funk tonight; I was doing no service to anybody, least of all to myself. It was time to call it a day. I was reaching for my nightgown when a light flickered in my bedroom. Reflexively, I turned to the window.


	13. In for a Penny

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard, talented work.**  
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><p><strong>In for a Penny…<strong>

Bill floated outside my window, looking more than fine. Relief flooded me.

"You're okay!"

He nodded with a maddeningly neutral expression, one that didn't give away any hint of where he'd been since the smokehouse ceiling had collapsed. Mid-air, he held steady, without even a night breeze ruffling his clothes, which I admit piqued my curiosity. If I gave him a shove, would he be propelled backwards, with no friction to slow him down?

I'd no sooner leaned forward slightly to get a better look than I caught a hint of a smile passing his lips. And that's when I finally lost it, bursting out in an angry stage whisper. "Where have you _been?_"

His smile faded. He couldn't have missed my anger, but still, he gave me the run-down in a matter-of-fact tone, which only stoked the flames. "After the ceiling collapsed, I checked around the property to make sure there were no other problems. By the time your grandmother settled, you'd pulled the blinds, so I figured you didn't want company. And then last night, I assisted with some matters related to the incident at Fangtasia."

He nodded and then appeared to settle back on his heels, apparently satisfied he'd connected all of the dots for me. I almost snorted hearing him call it an "incident," but at the moment, I had another fish to fry.

"I'm not the only one wondering," I hissed.

That caught his attention, sure enough.

"What do you mean?"

"Harlen came by the tavern to ask for you."

"Harlen?" Bill puzzled. "Harlen the vampire? Young-looking. Genial."

I huffed. "Yes, Harlen. Pretty blue eyes. Boy band material. Wanted to be sure that I passed along the message to you that he'd stopped by."

Bill's eyes—deep pools of unblinking darkness—appraised me carefully. After a significant pause, he finally asked, "What did you tell him?"

"What?" I sputtered, stunned by his nerve. "What did _I_ tell _him_?!" Again, I had the urge to leap out at him; at no other occasion in my life was a flimsy window screen saving my life. "I should have told him that _loose lips sink ships._"

Bill looked positively grim, the features of his face barely shifting, but still somehow conveying a heck of a lot more emotion than he had only moments earlier. _This_ was ruffled for Bill, which didn't feel nearly as good as I had originally hoped.

"I didn't tell him about you," he said very quietly.

"That's interesting because he sure did know a lot about me." I sorely wanted to cut loose and yell, but all the while, the quiet pattern of Gran's sleeping poked at me insistently. I'd started out keeping this secret for Bill, but now more than ever, I felt like it was a secret I needed to keep for Gran too. Dragging her into this business would do her no good at this point.

Meanwhile, Bill's palms had flattened in a downward, 'keep calm' motion. "Harlen's not a direct concern."

Well, then, it wasn't too far of a leap to figure out that someone else was. Bill confirmed it before I could say anything else. "I believe Harlen's visit was a warning, to let me know that some news about me has gotten out."

I had a little shiver, thinking about that demonstrator who'd stood by my car outside the firehouse. "Who? Is it those Fellowship people?"

"No," he sighed. "They're a different kind of concern." He looked grim again. "How is your grandmother?"

It seemed to be the question everyone wanted to know, though I took note that he was sidestepping my question. "You saw her on the news?"

"Yes."

I was glad at that moment that Bill kept his answer short, without any additional commentary. And I was reminded again of how clean his mind was to me; I would not have to watch Gran and all of the associated video replayed in his mind.

"She's fine," I finally said vaguely, protecting her privacy. "I don't like lying to her," I added pointedly. "And I've worked _very hard_ to keep your secret."

A look of contrition swiped across his face and then just as quickly faded away. "I believe I have some…acquaintances who are interested in finding out more about my story—where I came from and so on—and keen on stirring up trouble."

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he was hanging around Bird-in-Hand at all—why invite any kind of trouble—when I stopped myself from being rude. There was no need to rub salt in his wounds. But now that Gran's face was out there as Grandmother to all Vampires, I needed to be concerned about what kind of trouble might come our way.

"How bad is this?" I asked him bluntly.

"Now that I know, I can throw them off. And I've seen to it that you and your grandmother are safe."

That gave me pause, sure enough, but before I could ask him what he meant by that, he added, "Vampires are mean and vindictive, Sookie," resignation thick in his voice.

"Not you," I insisted immediately. "I know you. And I can see you still care about your folks." Of that I felt certain. Maybe Bill had misstepped, but I knew he still cared.

He laughed softly, a wry chuckle that still played deeply in his chest. When its resonance faded, he added, "I'll understand if you don't want to help Sarah anymore."

I shook my head vigorously, frustrated I had to explain yet again. "I'm committed to helping your sister."

"We can come up with a different plan if you'd like," Bill persisted. "I can simply leave the full amount of cash with you, and you can call if you need anything else. I have a cell phone." He pulled his phone out of his pocket to demonstrate.

I had to admit that hearing that option being considered out loud tightened my chest with a pang of bitterness. Here I was in that old familiar place, about to be denied again.

"Is that what you'd like to do?" he prodded.

I blew out a puff of exasperation. "I don't know what you're asking me. Whatever arrangements work best with Sarah are fine. But if you're asking me whether I want you to stop coming, then I don't know what to say. I'm not sure what…this is." I held my palms out and open to him. "I'll understand if it's too difficult or dangerous for you to keep coming around here. Or if you'd rather go off and be with Harlen…"

"Harlen?"

"Or whomever. But you can't have it both ways. If you're…coming here—to be with me—and you want me to keep your secret, then you can't be sharing the news or…whatever with other vampires."

I hoped my stumbling words got my message across. Bill seemed to be considering. "Is there someone else _you'd_ like to be with?"

"No!"

"There's no one else I'd like to be with either."

"Well, all right, then." I still didn't know what that meant, exactly, though a part of me was glad Harlen didn't seem to be anyone special. I felt myself relax. Peering out into the darkness—so thick it appeared to be supporting Bill—I wondered what it would be like to turn a cartwheel mid-air.

"Come with me," he said with confidence, as though it were already a done deal. "I want to take you somewhere."

_Judas_. I could feel myself starting to float. "Where?"

"Not far."

"I'd need to get changed," I asserted.

"No rush."

_Judas_.

Without answering him directly, I pulled the blind straight down in front of him; I had no interest in putting on a show, mostly in the sense that I didn't want him to see me scrambling. Immediately I began rummaging through drawers, looking for an appropriate outfit to wear to…wherever we were going.

I started with jeans. Jeans were always the answer to wardrobe crises, right? These hung low and snugged my curves nicely, though maybe a bit more loosely than they did last spring, which made me pleased as punch. And then after a try or two, I finally settled on a lightweight, fitted white sweater, which contrasted nicely with the hint of tan I had left. Since I hadn't worn it in a while, it felt new and special.

I brushed my teeth, took a washcloth to my face, dabbed on a touch of makeup, and neatened up my ponytail. Then without thinking about it any further, I left my room and crept out through the kitchen to the front door, where I knew he'd be waiting. I slipped on a pair of flats and grabbed a hoodie.

He held an elbow out for me, which I accepted.

Of course I was curious about where he was taking me. Bill nodded toward the barnyard. We followed the path, but immediately before our fallen tree, he made a turn into the orchard, onto one of the well-beaten deer trails. I was familiar with the route, but in the darkness, I stumbled alongside Bill's smooth gait. He stiffened, clasped my arm more tightly, and then pulled out the flashlight he'd always carried here to see me. Surely he could see better in the dark than I could; I wondered whether he'd continued to use it out of habit, a holdover from his Amish days when men would use them to shine in the windows of the women they were courting.

In any case, Bill now shone the light on the path near my feet. We were following the trail that led downhill, toward the other side of the orchard, which opened onto a small valley. Sloping up the opposite side, a rocky field lay untilled, full of grassy weeds and thorny branches. And in the middle of it all sat an old farmhouse, abandoned for as long as I could remember.

For whatever reasons, Tara and I had ignored this place when we were kids. In fact, we'd even stayed away from this side of the orchard, which was unusual given how much of the property we'd explored. Stranger still, as Bill and I approached the limits of the Stackhouse farm, my curiosity about where we were going tangled with a jab of apprehension.

Bill must have sensed my slowing down. He pulled me closer and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, at the same time, compelling me to keep up his pace as we picked our way across the rocky, overgrown field to the front steps of the farmhouse.

I looked up at the façade in darkness. Though it had fallen into disrepair—unloved for many years—this farmhouse had taken a stab at greatness. The main body, built of brick and painted white with green trim, now looked splotched with chipped and peeling paint. Bill led me onto the porch framed by arched, decorative molding. He pushed at the wide front door, flanked by narrow panes of glass. They'd managed to stay intact, save for a small jagged hole punched out on one side.

I hesitated and pulled away from his touch.

"It's all right." He'd stopped with me at the doorstep and was waiting for me to proceed.

"Is this your place?"

"For now," he said vaguely.

I puzzled over my own hesitation.

He smiled and looked ready to reach out and tousle my hair in that way that adults do with kids when they're being affectionate. I don't enjoy having my hair mussed and worse, hate being patronized. Out of sheer annoyance, I took a step forward, which cued him to push the door wide open. Strangely enough, I needed still more oomph to keep going—like that extra push you need to get your front bicycle tire up the curb—and for a moment I thought I might even bounce backward. Bill's hand on my back propelled me forward, across the threshold. Once inside, I felt myself settle.

From what I could see from the dim light of the flashlight, we were walking into an entryway with a staircase landing to the left. Straight ahead, a hallway led to the rear of the house, and to the right, doorways marked the entrances into rooms.

"Wait here," he said, handing me the flashlight. I leaned against the staircase railing and watched as he entered the first room. Within seconds, it was lit up by the warm glow of kerosene lamps.

Inviting me in, he gestured toward a sofa in the middle, facing a fireplace, stripped of its mantle and missing tiles along one entire side. There were also two other upholstered chairs, placed in their requisite positions on both sides of the fireplace, a square coffee table in the middle of the seating arrangement, and a wardrobe tucked near the wide open doorway.

The room apparently had been swept clean of dust and debris. Parts of the floor tiles were chipped or worn away, exposing the plain wood subfloor. Two windows facing my Gran's farmhouse were boarded up, but clean heavy curtains hung on the front windows.

"Is _this_ where you stay?" I looked at Bill, who also appeared to be surveying the room. His green backpack sat on the floor by the sofa.

"I come here sometimes."

"And you…fixed it up?" I struggled for the right words. Clearly someone had cared about cleaning and adding some home touches, but hadn't undertaken any renovations that might make this place a more permanent residence.

He nodded and kept silent as I took it all in again. If I had to sum up the message in Bill's surroundings, I'd have to say that he was here for the short term, but not the long haul. He was showing me something personal about himself simply by inviting me here. As I stood taking it all in, an inkling of sadness shifted; my anger at his earlier missteps eased a little more.

Bill stood with me for a moment longer before suddenly striding the few steps to the wardrobe, which he swung wide open. If I had had the time to expect anything creepy to tumble out, I'd have been sorely mistaken. The contents were absolutely ordinary—hanging clothes, a row of shoes, a stack of folded items—all neatly organized, I was pleased to see. And on the top shelf…

"Parcheesi, Sorry, Scrabble, or Rook?" Bill prompted, grinning.

The determined smile on his face told me he was not kidding.

"How about Scrabble?" I suggested without missing a beat. I'd played many games of it with Gran, passing the hours at our kitchen table. "But no German," I teased.

"Ja gewitz," he answered, pulling one of the chairs closer to the table.

"Jason and I used to have some knock-down-drag-out Monopoly games."

"Sarah liked checkers best. Occasionally she could even beat me." His smiled turned devilish. "But the thing we did most during our free time was simply visiting people."

"Oh?" I prompted.

He nodded emphatically. "Leisure time was golden, but we could chat for hours on end. Gossiping. And of course, a private visit between a young man and woman meant a clear intention of courtship."

Before I could process his comment, he gestured toward the board. "Ladies first."

_Ladies first?_ I winced. I was about to object when I happened to note that I had a good first play. "All right," I said, taking his challenge.

As he shifted and started to reach for his letter tiles, I caught motion on the wall behind him, where a broken mirror and an array of photographs were lined up and propped against the wall.

"Your back!"

He looked at me quizzically before turning his back to me.

"No! There. In the mirror." I pointed.

He laughed low, vibrating in my belly like a bass drum. I felt like a kid again, sitting on the curb and cheering for the bands marching by in the Jack Frost parade. Bill got up and strode the few steps over to the mirror, bent down, and waved at me.

"I can see you!" I joined him, kneeling at the mirror and hunching low so that our faces were next to each other.

"It's a fallacy," he explained in his teaching tone, addressing my reflection in the mirror. "Vampires' reflections show in mirrors, as you can see."

I reached out to touch his reflection and wipe away some dust; it appeared that the mirror had already been cleaned.

"How do I look now?" he asked.

"Oh, you're very handsome," I blurted out.

Bill's expression didn't shift. If he'd been pleased, surprised, or insulted by my response, he let on little. "You know, of course, that the Amish are more spooked by mirrors than vampires."

"Oh!" Now I understood what he'd meant. "You had no mirrors in your home." Nor photographs of people. They went against the Amish practice of holding no graven images. When Bill had been changed, he'd had a limited understanding of what he'd changed _from_.

"No mirrors," he confirmed. "We all sneaked a peak, of course."

"Okay," I said, stalling. This question was difficult and full of potential landmines, though if I was reading his relaxed posture well enough, he seemed game. I started with the easy one. "Your hair is combed in a different style."

His fingers reached up and pulled his bangs straight down.

"Yeah. That makes a difference. And of course your beard is gone. I'd never really seen your chin before." I wanted to touch his face again, to feel his smooth skin over his hard jaw line. Somehow sitting in front of this mirror with him and talking about his appearance had ramped up the intimacy in a steep way. I swallowed hard and continued.

"You're extra pale."

He held his arm up to mine and pushed back our sleeves. Gone was the weather-beaten complexion that most Amish farmers sported.

"Cool too," I added, feeling the chill of his skin pressed against mine. "And your clothes, of course."

"I'd never gone shopping for clothes before. Didn't even know what size to try."

"They suit you well," I said honestly. I couldn't easily picture him in anything flashy or trendy. Tonight he was wearing khakis again with a blue-and-white striped collared shirt and soft brown leather loafers. I could picture him returning from his office at the end of the day saying, "Honey, I'm home." I shook my head. Maybe that was only my fantasy.

"What?" he prompted, apparently having noticed my little internal dialogue.

"Nothing important," I hedged. "I'm trying to imagine you in a clothing store for the first time."

I expected he'd spin off into a story about his first shopping excursion to the Bon-Ton, but he persisted. "What else?"

I'd covered the obvious basics, which meant we were officially in tricky territory. But ducking out at this point would be an insult. So I went for it.

"You glow a little."

"You can see that?" he asked casting me a discerning look.

"Yes."

He nodded. "Anything else?"

I grasped for the right words. His face mostly looked the same, but not exactly. "I don't know how to describe it. You look…well, the only way I can think to say it is that somehow you look…older. Not with wrinkles or gray hair or anything like that, of course. Just…well… your expressions seem older. The way you compose your face."

"But you recognized me."

"Yes, though not immediately. After I'd gotten over the disbelief that it was you."

"And you knew I was a vampire."

"Again, yes, after a moment."

"Would others?"

Oh, boy. We were swimming in it deep now. It seemed like what Bill was asking me was whether he could pass as a human, or at least integrate with them more. I was sure he'd been around other humans outside of this area, though how many, I didn't know. He'd had to adjust to living not only as a vampire, but also among Englishers. Maybe he was toying with the idea of trying to re-join the Amish, if not here, then in some other settlement. I couldn't imagine which one; I guessed even the most liberal district wouldn't take him in.

They wouldn't, would they? I was surprised to find in myself a hint of possessiveness that didn't want to give him over to the Amish. So I paused, judging my answer extra carefully, reminding myself what it had been like when Harlen had come into the tavern. Harlen had slipped by most folks, but he'd come and gone so quickly, few customers had noted anything other than a nagging discomfort without a source. If he had stayed longer, a few probably would have eventually figured it out, if for no other reason than his skin was so pale. And then once they'd gotten over that hump of disbelief—that yes, vampires really did exist and could indeed walk straight into the Virginville Tavern—they'd get quite good at spotting vampires.

"Yes," I said finally, feeling as though I'd given his question fair consideration. There'd be no lying in view of this mirror. "I think once people got over their own limitations, they'd spot you."

I didn't know what he was looking for and why, but this answer seemed satisfactory enough for Bill, who straightened himself upright, out of reach of the mirror. His fingers worked the task of combing his hair off his face into its new style. It flopped out of place; I reached up to coax it back. He didn't pull away. I wasn't lying when I said he was handsome.

We sat in gentle silence. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, as though I could pull all of that good stuff inside me and fix it there forever. I felt a relaxed sense of timelessness with him; he couldn't glamour me in the traditional vampire sense, but his silence was surely hypnotic.

"May I?" he finally asked, touching the elastic tie holding my ponytail.

"Okay," I said hesitantly. It was an odd request, though on second thought, I'd been the one initiating the hair stylist game.

Surprisingly enough, he was as gentle with my hair as if he'd had all the experience in the world taming long locks. He'd scooted behind me, and after coaxing the tie down the length of my ponytail, he wrapped it around his wrist and touched my head, massaging my scalp, easing another layer of tension. It slipped into a puddle as quietly and effortlessly as an untucked percale sheet sliding off the bed. Cool and sweet. I think an involuntary _mmm_ escaped from some part of me.

He must have taken that as a go-ahead, because then he leaned down to brush the back of my head with his mouth. His hands grasped my hair, gently pushing it aside, laying one side of my neck open and vulnerable. I closed my eyes and felt his face burrowing into my hair, and then, surprisingly, the tickle of his breath—or whatever you'd call it—behind my ear, in that tender spot, working some kind of miracle, for sure. Who knew there were a direct line between there and a certain other little spot that had never entertained visitors? _Hello? Wake up down there. It's the dimple behind your ear calling. You've got company._

Oh, Lord.

My eyes flew open, and shocked at the brand new view of myself caught up in pure and simple lust, I pulled away, though I can tell you unequivocally that not all of me was on board.

"Whoa," I laughed nervously, and Bill responded with his own smile. "What happened to Scrabble?" I pushed myself up, wondering yet again what we were doing. This business between us could only be temporary, as our surroundings clearly insisted upon us. Once again, I was reminded that I could take Door A, with all of its potential pitfalls, or head home and possibly get nothing. Become the Cat Lady of Bird-in-Hand. It didn't have such a bad ring to it, and maybe that's where I was headed in any case, but it might not be such a bad thing to grab hold and enjoy whatever I could along the way, even if it couldn't possibly last.

I had started to pace the few steps in front of the row of photographs, lined up with the mirror. It was an eclectic lot, ranging from black-and-white portraits with stiff poses and stern expressions, to faded color snapshots of grinning folks sporting long sideburns, well-teased hair, and brightly-colored plaid pants.

"Do you know any of them?" Bill's voice broke the silence.

"I don't think so. I don't remember anyone living here. I doubt it was ever a workable farm." I looked again at the more recent pictures. One showed a threesome of smiling people. A man posed in the front had long hair, blown from his face, exposing one large ear. I guessed a ponytail wasn't a good look for him. Two women behind him wore matching culottes and sported perms.

"Do you think it's odd they were left here?"

"Maybe," I said, feeling uncertain in my role as an expert of English behavior. My family had had so many members taken away prematurely that I couldn't imagine leaving any framed photograph of them behind.

"We have well-documented family histories," he said, and once again, it took me a moment to realize that "we" meant the Amish. "My family has a book that details all of our relatives going back hundreds of years. There are little stories in there too. But no photographs. I can't even remember what my son looked like at age three."

"Oh, Bill," I said, hearing my voice soften.

"It's all right," he said brusquely, with a cold edge.

This was tricky business for sure. I'd tried to follow his lead, but the two of us faced many emotional pitfalls here, only miles away from his home where he'd lived as a human.

Maybe he saw a change come over my face as I worked through my thoughts. Maybe he'd done his own emotional patch up, quick and speedy.

"I think it's my turn," he said, gesturing toward the board.

We played for a while, lost in the game, which was a nice retreat from everything else. I was surprised at how fairly evenly matched we were. Bill knew a lot of good Scrabble words. And we got into a lively discussion over the word 'putz.'

Eventually, though, my yawns caught up with me. I'd had a long day, starting with dropping Gran off at the firehouse. Taking my cues, Bill abandoned his tiles and slid onto the sofa next to me.

"May I call on you?" he asked, making his intentions official. This request was different from asking me whether I'd do a favor for him, and I was glad I'd had some time to think about it.

"Of course," I answered, reaching to pull my hair off my face. His hands stopped me.

"Leave it down. It's beautiful that way." He arranged it around my shoulders. We'd returned to playing hairdresser. I was glad I'd given my hair a good conditioning treatment recently and that Tara had recently neatened up the ends for me.

Without a doubt, I enjoyed being touched and admired. I ached to be kissed, but it wouldn't count half as much if I initiated, as I'd done the night I'd kissed him on the cheek. _Okay, what if I leaned forward a little? Would that count?_ Yes, I decided it still would. So I bent toward him slightly, the cold ache building until it might have driven me crazy or eaten me alive.

He brushed my cheek with his fingertips, and then his other hand was holding the back of my head, and next his mouth was on mine. Three easy stages of a kiss, I thought giddily to myself as finally our lips met. Inexperienced, I tried to keep up and match his motions, but I wasn't exactly expecting his tongue to join the party too. Not that I was protesting, only I hoped I was doing it right. I didn't mind practicing.

He groaned softly and pulled back.

"Did I do something wrong?"

He shook his head. "How could you ever think that?"

_Well, let me list the ways._ But he stopped my train of thought by glancing down. My eyes widened, my attention drawn to the bulge in his pants, which I sorely wanted to touch. _I couldn't touch it, could I? No, probably not_. At any rate, it was clear that he still worked. I cracked a real grin, thrilled I'd had that kind of effect on him.

And that stopped me in my tracks.

_I _worked too. I felt all kinds of lit up and warm and golden and happy inside, like a beaming jack-o'-lantern.

"Could we do it again?" I asked, and he laughed in the way I loved, which made me want to launch myself at him for another round. Bill responded by leaning in for another kiss, this one briefer and more chaste, but still exciting.

"We should go," Bill said abruptly. I could have stayed all night, one kiss blending into the next.

On the other hand, the buzzing inside of me already felt strong enough to last the next few days at least.


	14. Welcome to the Club

**Disclaimer**: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

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><p><strong>Welcome to the Club<strong>

I walked into Merlotte's the next day like a woman who knew how to kiss and be kissed. If you'd have asked me what a woman like that looks like, I'd have told you that she looks like a regular woman, with a real and honest smile.

"Don't you look cute," Arlene commented, breezing by. She gave my twist of hair a friendly tug.

I'd done it up different today, coiled and clipped in a style that made the ends fan out and bob when I walked—something special for my festive mood. Glory, I'd had the whole house to myself.

"Gone shopping with Maxine," Gran had written in a note. "Didn't want to disturb you. Cat is outside." She'd left the note atop a container of some of her homemade sticky buns. I'd shown some restraint by eating a bowl of cantaloupe before digging in.

Refreshed and well-rested, I'd turned on Gran's old black radio in the kitchen, tuned the dial away from NPR, and cranked up some songs to dance my way through the morning.

Only the night before, my vampire had escorted me to my front door and pressed his lips against mine. He'd tucked a piece of paper into my hand, on which he'd written his cell phone number. I'd stashed it in my top dresser drawer last night; this morning, I'd pulled it out to make sure I hadn't dreamt it.

"Sookie!"

I turned sharply at hearing my name. Jason was waiting for me expectantly, along with his co-workers Dago, Rene, and Hoyt, and his supervisor, Catfish Hennessey. "Sookie," he said again, more quietly, but still with an impatient edge, "I asked how Gran is doing?"

"She's fine," I said mildly, unwilling to let my brother get under my skin. I had no inclination to discuss Gran with him in the presence of his co-workers. I knew all of them well enough, having served them on many occasions at the tavern, but they weren't family and didn't need to be included in our private matters, at least not from me. Whatever Jason had told them on his time had been his business.

"She's fine," I said again, feeling outnumbered. Refocusing on Hoyt, I said, "She went out with your mother today."

Hoyt nodded. "They were going out to that Amish-run nursery over there in Honey Creek. Something for the home tour."

"Probably ordering wreaths and other greenery," I added.

Jason was starting to fidget, annoyed I was nattering on about stupid Gardener's Guild business when there were more serious issues at hand, such as how untoward it had been that a "woman of Gran's age" had spoken out like that on camera. But most of all, he hated the ribbing being aimed at him, especially from Dago and Rene, who'd figured Jerry Springer might be calling to do a special on "Vamp-Lovin' Grannies." I'd picked up the amusement from Dago, though from Rene, all I had gotten was a lot of dark murk.

Catfish, though, had grown impatient with the sensationalized news of late and figured Adele Hale Stackhouse was only one of a few who had gotten misrepresented, though he questioned why she had ever chosen to speak her mind in such a fashion. Unfortunately, these concerns flitted across his mind immediately before he placed his order, which I missed altogether. Sometimes thoughts speak louder than even shouted words in my world.

"Excuse me?" I asked, prompting him to repeat his order.

"I'll have the chicken potpie today, Sookie." Catfish replied steadily, as Dago cast a knowing glance at Rene. _Wink, wink. Crazy Sookie._

I regrouped as the old stiff smile tugged at my cheeks. "Are the rest of you ordering individually or going for family style?"

"I'll have a bacon cheeseburger," Jason responded.

_Good choice,_ I agreed as I took Dago and Rene's order and then turned away. "What's up with the cop convention?" Jason asked his coworkers, referring to the group seated in Arlene's section.

I cast a glance at their table. It _was_ quite the gathering. Andy Bellefleur, Bud Dearborn, Alcee Beck, and Kevin and Kenya were all seated together. I wondered what they were up to in force.

I snapped my tray down at the bar harder than I needed to and attempted to fortify my mental shields as I helped Sam out by scooping ice. A familiar voice vibrated through me, though, and it wasn't until another moment passed that I realized it was coming from the TV directly above me.

"Listen. It's pure and simple, so I'm going to give it to you straight: vampires are doing the Devil's deeds. Anyone who thinks otherwise is sympathizing with the Devil himself."

_Judas_! It was the man who'd stood on the sidewalk outside the fire department, "blessing" me. Same beaky nose. Same brown hair tinged with gray. He wore an untailored collared dress shirt today, one that seemed to enhance the width of his bony shoulders. Perched atop all of that puffed-up bulk, his small head looked even more out of proportion with the rest of him. The caption below him read, "The Reverend Steve Newlin, Fellowship of the Sun."

The Reverend Newlin continued. "You know that little old lady? The one we keep seeing on the news, speaking out for the vampires? What are they calling her? Poppycock Granny?" He knew damn well what they were calling her, of course. He smiled lazily, with the confident assurance we were all in on the same joke together. "She looks sweet." Here, he stopped to enunciate his words very clearly. "But she's a _Devil Sympathizer_. Stay away from her and those of her kind. 'Do not give the Devil a foothold.' Ephesians 4:27." He nodded knowingly.

I felt sick; he seemed to have that effect on me.

The host of the news program stepped in. "So let me make sure I'm understanding what you're saying, Reverend Newlin, because it was Jim Collins who shot those Amish women at the Stoltzenfus farmhouse, not vampires."

"Ah, see? That's what they do. They corrupt. They spread their evil ways. And Jim Collins did something they didn't like: he spoke out against them. He used his God-given right of free speech. Do you want that taken from you?"

Reverend Newlin turned away from the host sitting next to him to look directly at the camera. "Heed my warning. These are Devil's deeds."

I shook my head, not believing what I was hearing. How could anyone believe this tripe? Gran was absolutely right. It made no sense. I had convinced myself that no one would buy into their message when a live shot panned a crowd assembled outside of Fangtasia, on the sidewalk across the street.

"You all right there, cher?" Sam asked, finishing off the drink order for Jason's table.

I nodded up at the TV.

Sam's warm smile suddenly went flat, but not at what I was expecting. "Sookie, are you _all right_?" he said again, with greater urgency. He grabbed my arm securely and gave me a once-over from top to bottom. Also, if I wasn't imagining it, he seemed to be sniffing. I tugged out of his grasp, embittered. He'd made me paranoid, too, that my eye make-up had already smeared. Was I walking around like a deranged raccoon? Almost as if to emphasize the point, Jane Bodehouse, sitting at her favorite perch at the bar, smiled at me, her misshapen, heavily outlined lips curling up at the corners crookedly.

"Sookie," he prompted in a loud whisper. "If you're in trouble, I'll help however I can."

"Oh, I'm in trouble—that's for sure," I said, in my own whisper, realizing how quickly my day had gone to hell in a hand basket. I'd come here feeling more human, ironically enough, after kissing a vampire, but once again, it seemed as though I wasn't fitting in with the human race so well. It had been stupid of me, of course, to think I'd be welcomed into the club after a fine kiss. But dammit, it had been one fine kiss.

"What can I do? Whatever you need."

I waved my arms around me in exasperation. My shields had slid slipshod in the short time since I'd started work. But in the middle of my back-and-forth with Sam, they'd lost whatever tentative hold they'd had. The noise screwed into my head like static-filled earplugs. "Just…" I waved my arms some more. "Just make it go away," I snapped.

For a brief moment, Sam appeared to be actually considering my request. And then as full realization sank into him, he responded, "Oh, cher," with pity in his voice.

I don't do pity. I stormed off with my tray of drinks for Jason's table and scrambled hard to patch together some sort of rebound mental defense. Part of the problem was that it wasn't busy enough to simply throw myself into a hard work routine. And part of the problem was that in my good mood, I'd let myself relax a bit, and the weight had pressed down on me when I wasn't in a good bracing position to push it back.

"She's a little plump," a female voice thought, which might have been the most unoriginal one in the crowd. But when I almost immediately heard it again, I wondered whether my apron was bunching unflatteringly. Glancing in one of the beer mirrors Sam had hung, I checked out myself through the Yuengling logo and smoothed the fabric across my belly. All right, maybe I was heading toward a size 10, but these pants were still an 8, for Pete's sake, and if that size had once made Oprah happy, I could live with it too.

"Her tits are huge," someone else was musing. Personally, I preferred the term "well-endowed."

They were mostly the standard kinds of judgments I hear all the time in the tavern. "Heh, so Sam finally popped her cherry," someone else figured, as if that rumor hadn't been floated every few months in Virginville. I myself had fantasized about Sam. Not today, though, I reminded myself sternly. Today, Sam was definitely not starring in any romantic role opposite me.

"What the hell did _you_ do with your hair?" Andy Bellefleur thought, which was the most hurtful one in the bunch because he'd directed it at me deliberately. He gave me an unshakable stare, too, as though daring me to respond as he stood there with the rest of them, gathering themselves and settling up their bill.

Maybe he was testing the waters, the telepathic equivalent of the game of chicken. I'd never done anything against Andy personally, but he was ambivalent about my messing with an orderly view of the world, neat and tidy with clear rights and wrongs. Maybe he reckoned I wouldn't take on his challenge in front of all of those officers on duty, all crisp in their uniforms and suits, their guns holstered at their hips, or at their torsos, underneath their suit coats. They might have been an intimidating bunch, save for Bud Dearborn, whose smooshed face had always looked to me like he'd run face-first into a closed door. But I'd been outnumbered more than once already today, and I found Andy's lack of courage particularly distasteful.

"You're a coward, Andy Bellefleur," I said, quietly, but clearly through clenched jaws. Enraged, I felt the tears start to come, my eyes widening to stop them from flowing down my cheeks. For a brief moment, I actually felt sorry for Andy as he registered a confusing mixture of shock, excitement, and dismay as the edges of his simple world started crumbling. But then, just like that, his mind tightened. His colleagues had all gathered themselves and were standing around, looking from him to me in silence. Clearly we'd had an exchange, and many of them were assuming that I had been talking about my grandmother. Almost as though he thought his _colleagues_ could hear his thoughts, he told himself I was plain weird.

Kenya stepped in, breaking the stalemate. "Your grandmother's getting some attention," she said, obviously referring to her appearance on the local news. "Ain't it something," she continued, "how they can blow up a few words and twist them to make them mean what they want?"

By "they" I assumed she meant reporters, and Kenya held a bit of a grudge against them because of their tendency to get the facts wrong on her incidents. Just the other day, she was thinking, she'd written up a press release about an accident and the reporter had _still_ managed to mangle the story, mixing eyewitness accounts with police facts. Alcee, on the other hand, was thinking about how he'd been able to manipulate the press, feeding them certain bits of information to work a case in his favor.

"It's all right," I said. "Gran's tough." Kenya had meant well, and it was obviously true enough that the press had taken Gran's words and played them over and over, coloring them with the vamp-loving-Granny idea. But in spite of her general wariness of reporters, Kenya herself had fallen victim to a major misinterpretation, assuming that there was no way that a woman of Gran's age could possibly be pro-vampire.

"You have any trouble with anyone poking around out there by your house?" Kevin spoke up.

"Naw," I said. "Not that I noticed. Only a few tourists doing some Amish gawking. The usual."

He nodded in response, apparently satisfied, and cast a glance toward Kenya. They were a quiet bunch, standing there all important-like, with important business to attend to. Bud Dearborn finally gave the signal it was time for all of them to go with a curt nod, saying "Sookie." The rest of them began moving toward the door.

I did my best to focus on work, but the afternoon was still relatively slow. I could feel Sam's penned-up, snarly tension, threatening to nip at me. I did my best to stay clear of him. While serving a light, but steady stream of customers, I did anything to keep my hands busy. I folded extra dinner napkins. I filled salt-and-pepper shakers. I stuffed all the caddies full of sweetener packets. I straightened tablecloths. I wiped off all the chairs and lined them up neat and square.

When Janella Lennox wandered in at the end of my shift, I didn't recognize her at first. She'd worked at the tavern for only a few weeks before Sam had fired her for being surly with customers, so I hadn't ever gotten personally acquainted with her. Still, I could tell time hadn't been very kind to Janella. She'd aged quite a bit in the two years since I'd seen her, and the thick make-up she'd layered all over her face hadn't helped, settling into the crevices and crags of her face. It was the wrong color, too, giving her face the disconcerting appearance of floating above the rest of her body. Dark roots showed at the crown of her bleached blonde hair. Most disturbingly, she had bite marks on her neck.

"Sookie," she greeted me, with scantily disguised spite in her voice. "I heard you were still here."

"Never left," I acknowledged bluntly. "What can I get you?"

Janella shifted in her seat. The bite marks on her neck appeared sore and red.

"I only want a beer," she answered. "You have Yuengling on tap?"

"Yes." I noticed she was holding her neck stiffly.

"And how 'bout some of those beer pretzels Sam useta put out?"

I nodded, wondering where she'd encountered a vampire.

"They still free?"

"Yes."

"Bring me a big basket of 'em, wouldja?"

"All right," I said, forcing cheer in my voice. Janella probably would have been best served at the bar. By Sam.

"Your brother still around?"

_Oh, brother. Was that what this was all about? "_Sure," I answered, and then stopped myself from saying, "You know Jason. He gets around." I was sore with Jason, but it does no good to smack-talk your own family members, even when they're not on your favorites list. "I'll be right back with that beer."

I scooted away as quickly as I could to escape any conversation with her. Truth be told, Janella frightened me a bit. And—all right—I admit I completely dropped my shields and thoroughly scanned her since I was curious about why she'd returned. She didn't have a whole lot going on upstairs, which wasn't anything new. But the emptiness in her head—not the voided space of vampires—whispered with static-y, skipped, and out-of-reach conversations, like she was parked in the middle of radio wasteland. I'd never come across anything like it.

"So you been doin' anything else?" Janella asked when I set her beer down with a heavy basket of the hard, thick pretzels. There were probably enough there for her to gnaw on for hours; I hoped she plum tired out from the effort.

"Nope. Just keeping busy here."

"Well, I've sure had some interesting times," she boasted, running her fingers down her neck lightly. "You ever been with a vampire?"

"No." _Not like that, anyway._

"Oh?" She seemed surprised.

"No," I said again, refusing to delve into it anymore with her. I'd promised Bill my discretion, after all, and I would flat out lie for him if I needed to.

"You'll never want another human again after you've been with a _vampire_." She licked her lips.

I'd had the same concern about Bill—that after soaking up his silence, I'd never be able to relax around an ordinary human again—but Janella's commentary was blatantly sexual.

I shrugged. "Are you all set here?"

"Aw, come on," she cajoled, having about as much finesse as the ladies at Bingo night competing for the country ham prize. "Who _wouldn't _want it? Incredible sex…Power..." She paused again for extra effect. "The chance of immortality."

Though the 'incredible sex' part definitely piqued my interest too, that was as much as Janella and I had in common. And frankly, I couldn't stomach even the idea of Janella sticking around for eternity.

"Not me," I said lightly, aiming for levity. I started to turn away from her.

"I'd have thought someone like _you_ would have been especially game."

_There it was again_. _Crazy Sookie._

"You can settle up with Sam at the bar, the sooner the better," I snapped, slapping her check down on her table.

"Freak."

_Yep. _I walked away, hearing that word echoing in my brain, to the background tune of her wasted wasteland of a brain. Was _that_ what happened to humans who hung out with vampires? Did they slowly decay? Janella had never been smart, but she'd had actual _thoughts_ running through her brain at one point. I had more to think about, too, given that it had seemed that Janella had come into Merlotte's for no other reason than to pump me for information. It seemed less than random. I realized in dismay I had _a lot_ more thinking to do.

"What's she doing?" Sam asked.

"Causing trouble," I smacked my tray down and leaned onto the bar.

"I'll boot her out." Sam started to move around the bar, but Janella had been wise enough to put her exit in motion already. She'd thrown some bills and coins onto the table and floor, which I'm sure didn't include a tip. I'd wait until she was well gone before I'd retrieve them. But Sam didn't stop. Janella, seeing he was still headed in her direction, picked up her pace and slammed the door behind her. He retrieved the bills and then stooped underneath to pick up each and every coin. He shoved all of it into the tip jar.

"I'm sorry, Sookie." Sam turned to me.

"Sorry for what?" I really wanted him to tell me.

But he didn't explain, wrapping me up in his arms instead, right there in the bar. I was surrounded by Sam, vibrating with warm energy in that way that only he does. His shoulder, clad in some kind of soft, warm fleecey fabric that smelled of laundry detergent, pressed against my cheek. Sam wasn't a big man, but he was dense in power per square inch and always seemed geared up to act, like a loaded mouse trap. I was in danger, I knew, of softening to him and letting a sniffle out, and then it would be a dangerously slippery slope. So I tightened up and imagined myself molding and pushing together into a compact, impenetrable ball.

But not before I heard something else. "So it must be true," someone thought. "She's demanding he pay for an abortion."

Suddenly all of those thoughts I'd heard earlier came together—the assessments of my boobs and plumpness and speculations about my sex life. My no-good, very bad day had turned into one of Gran's stories. I pulled away in a huff.

"What is it?"

Since this one involved Sam, he needed to know too. I gave him the quick and dirty version. "They think I'm pregnant, and you're the father, and I want you to pay for an abortion."

"Who does?" Sam demanded loudly.

I waved my arms around me, my way of signaling it had been something I'd heard through my "special talent."

Sam looked around the room, as if he himself would be able to ferret out the source of the rumor. Though I hadn't done anything wrong myself, I still felt responsible for putting an end to it—this kind of rumor would do Sam and his business no good. _Judas_, Gran would be scandalized too if she caught wind of it. She could handle the existence of vampires, but in other ways, she was a very traditional woman.

"I'll take care of it," I said. "I'll tell Arlene. She'll get the truth out quickly." Actually, I was surprised she hadn't already heard.

Sam shook his head in disbelief. Leaning forward and gripping the edge of the bar, he looked ready to swing himself clear over the top of it. Eventually, though, he waved resignedly toward the kitchen, where Arlene was. I could feel his annoyance, not directed at me, but generally toward those around us. For that I felt glad, and glad once again I had a boss who'd put up with this kind of nonsense that seemed to follow me around. But I could also feel in the mix yet another stab of pity—the second time that day. I shoved it aside—_I had to ignore it_—I told myself firmly as I pushed into the kitchen. With Lafayette there with Arlene, I could get two for the price of one.

Little did I know that the real fireworks wouldn't start until later that evening.


	15. Predators and Prey

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris. I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.**  
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><p><strong>Predators and Prey<strong>

The vampires meant to cause a big scene, of course. That much was obvious to anyone who eventually caught up with their antics in the newspaper. The dark, grainy images showed them celebrating and whooping it up like it was the 4th of July. Off-camera, those of us who were privy got an even worse flavor.

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By the time I arrived home from work, nighttime was pressing down, squeezing the last weak light from the edges of the horizon. I parked my car and slipped down the bank, surprised Gran hadn't turned on the security lights yet. But Bobbi greeted me, trotting briskly toward me to weave her body between my legs, in and out. I sidestepped her so I wouldn't trip and followed her over to the barn to check if she had any food. Along the way, I noticed she'd deposited two rodents—a mouse and a vole.

"Good kitty!" I stopped to give her an extra pat. Since no one was around, I plunked straight down on my backside to give her my full attention. "So brave." I scratched under her chin for extra effect. She flattened her neck and leaned into it, the hard purr rippling across my fingers. When she'd apparently had enough, she shook her head, ears twitching, and marched around me again with her tail held high.

I felt myself relax. I love cats. "I'm so glad you're here," I cooed, which reminded me that I needed to at least try to locate her owner, even though I doubted anyone would claim her. She climbed into my lap and began kneading with her front paws.

Suddenly without warning, she was off, darting out of my lap to take on another chase. She'd dug in sharply, scraping my thigh and catching the back of one of my hands, drawing a thin, jagged line of blood. I jumped up too, brushed myself off, and fixed a long, hard gaze into the night orchard, knowing there were things in there that could move faster and quieter than I'd ever be able to tell.

I reached the front porch, dingy with dim light leaking from the kitchen. Strangely enough, it looked like Gran hadn't left any lights on other than the fluorescent one that shone over her sink, which we nearly always left on. I wondered where she was. As I moved to close the outer door, Bobbi unexpectedly reappeared, darting inside in the nick of time with a slight scrape of poofed fur. She immediately pushed through the inner door, ajar, and skittered toward Gran's bedroom. A waft of an unpleasant smell—an unusual mix of things, not welcoming and familiar—greeted me. Flicking on the main overhead light, I saw at once what had happened here.

Jeez Louise, she'd been busy.

The table was lined with shoofly pies. Five of them. Next to an empty bowl, she'd written a note that said, "Two containers of coleslaw in fridge." And there were four packages of potato rolls with a note indicating the crockpot on the counter was full of barbecue. The sink was a disaster, full of exactly the number of dirty dishes and utensils and pots and pans you'd expect from this kind of a cooking spree. Another note said, "Dear Sookie, Sorry to leave a mess. Please take this food to the clean-up crew tonight. Set-up is at 10. Demolition at midnight. Call Maxine if you need directions. Love you."

I peeked in on her. Sure enough, Gran was asleep in her usual pose, propped up against her mountain of pillows with her book folded open against her chest. I slipped in a bookmark before setting her book on her night table and outening her light. Meanwhile, Bobbi jumped up, hunkered down for a moment, and then finally committed to a spot pressed against Gran's hip. As she curled into a tight ball, Gran didn't stir, clearly exhausted.

I yawned. I myself hadn't been tired until I'd realized bedtime wasn't in my near future. So I set to work before I had time to think about it more. Within half an hour, I had most of the dishes washed, dried, and put away. I gathered a few baking trays for carrying the pies and a sturdy box for the crockpot and buns, figuring I could carry the bowls with the coleslaw containers separate. Then I puttered a bit, worked a crossword puzzle, and felt myself getting antsy.

Gran's behavior had been so erratic lately, marked by bursts of caffeine-induced energy and other moments of complete exhaustion. I wondered whether she'd have any get-up-and-go without coffee. Though on second thought, maybe she'd been putting it into high gear lately to deal with all the stress, from the Amish shooting to her recent brush with "fame." Judas, I hoped she hadn't heard any of today's rumors floating around about me. Last thing she needed was another worry.

I stood and paced. It was nine o'clock, so I figured I could start loading up and head out. If I got there before anyone else, I'd just wait. Or maybe somebody would be there early and I could help set up, which would be way better than simply waiting, here or there.

Country roads are dark. On most nights, it's not something I usually notice. But tonight—maybe because of where I was going—my headlights cut only feebly through the pitch. I braked hard for a deer loping across the road into a potato field and then slowed for any more that might follow. As the road curved steeply, my headlights shone straight at a herd of more than ten pairs of yellow, glowing eyes, otherworldly and familiar at once.

I remembered when my daddy used to take Jason and me deer spotting. We'd plugged the powerful lamp into his cigarette lighter and traveled the back roads, scouring fields, creeks, and forest edges.

"Never in someone's house or car," Daddy had warned Jason and me as we'd wielded the light. "And take turns." We'd probably fought over it, or at least it seemed like something we might have done. My memories of my parents were sketchy at best; the sound of my daddy in my head could have been any man's voice layered over something Gran might say.

The whole point of the deer spotting, I later learned, had been to find out where the deer were hanging out to return to hunt them during the day, when it was legal. Back then, I hadn't fully understood that part of the hunt; to me, we'd simply been going on a fun excursion. Spending time with my father.

Passing the field, I sped up a bit, still alert for more deer. On my right, I passed a sallow-eyed farmhouse peering quietly, resigned to the lick of pebbled macadam at its toes. Inside, a family might be playing a game of Parcheesi or checkers. Or maybe right about now, a father and his two oldest sons were heading out back to hitch up the horse to make the nighttime journey to the demolition site. For me, the journey from here would take less than five minutes; for them, half an hour at least, I guessed.

I slowed as I thought I was nearing the site of the farmhouse. I'd never been back this particular road, but I was familiar with the area, and I thought I knew about where it was. I recognized Catfish's truck before I saw the house—set about 100 feet from the road—and pulled in behind him.

I rolled down my window as he approached my car.

"Maxine ain't here yet," Catfish greeted me, clearly distracted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Maxine's in charge of the food, and the generator ain't on yet." He turned away from me, his hands on his hips, surveying the site, though what he could see in the dark wasn't clear. A mop of clouds had pushed in, swiping the sky clean of everything but a spilled shaker of stars. And then he pointed. "All right. Right over there. You got a flashlight?"

"Sure do," I said agreeably. It sounded as though Catfish already had a lot on his plate; I reached for the glove compartment and pulled it open to assure him.

"Good. Right over there, by that clearing is where we're setting up the food tables. We'll run a power cord once we get the generator going. But all of that space between here and that clearing needs to stay open for the heavy equipment."

"Will do," I promised.

"The tables are in the back of my truck. You think you can handle them?"

"No problem."

"All right," he said with resolution and a nod, before patting my car. "You can leave your _machine_ here for now."

"Great! Thank you!"

He patted my car again before striding off to direct Ralph Tooten and Randall Shurtliff, both arriving in pickup trucks. I got out of the car, not at all certain where the clearing was, but figuring I'd find it with the flashlight. A stranger who apparently had contributed a generator and lights pulled up in yet another pickup. As I was sliding the tables out of the back of Catfish's truck, he got the generator started, followed immediately by the floodlights.

And then everything was visible.

This was where it all had happened.

Right in my face, the Stoltzenfus farmhouse sat boarded up in a straightjacket of plywood. Loose debris had been hauled away, but tiny glass shards still glittered the flattened, trampled lawn. One limp macramé pot holder, empty of a pot, dangled from a hook on the porch, looking too much like a noose.

There was no mistaking that something terrible had happened here.

I understood fully why it needed to be put down; this house wouldn't ever be patched up whole again.

I moved again with renewed purpose.

"I can help you with that," a deep voice from behind said.

I turned to see the new man stride toward me.

"Alcide Herveaux of Herveaux & Son, Accurate Surveys," he said, extending a large, brawny hand. He'd already rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, revealing muscular forearms with thick, dark hair. Jason had called those his Popeye muscles, but if ever there was a man who resembled Brutus, it was Alcide.

"I'm Sookie Stackhouse," I said, extending my hand, gripping his firmly. Stackhouse women are strong too. Those of us who are left are, anyway. I noticed right away his thoughts were murky and left only a general impression of his mood, much like Sam's.

"You new around here?" he asked.

I admit that even here, at the site of an Amish massacre, Alcide's banal opening line gave me a little jolt of excitement. Strangers—people who know nothing of my disability—are a special breed to me. Of course, they never stay strange once I catch a glimpse of their thoughts. But if they aren't strong broadcasters, like Alcide, it's something of a miracle to keep it short, but sweet with them, like I'd managed to accomplish a little something with a happy ending.

"Naw. I been around," I said, somewhat evasively. "My family owns farmlands in Bird-in-Hand."

"Nice." He nodded appreciatively. Farmlands were hard to come by. "May I help you with that?"

I didn't really need any help, but it seemed like accepting was the polite response. Together, we were walking with the table to the clearing when suddenly Alcide stopped, as if he sensed something, his whole body tense and hyper alert. And then abruptly, he cleared his throat.

"All set here?" he asked.

"Sure. Thank you."

He nodded and strode off purposefully. Well, that had been really brief. Almost too brief. But at least _I_ hadn't freaked him out.

I set to readying the food tables until Maxine arrived to take over. "Oh, sugar, you didn't have to do all that," she said, surveying the table. "Did you help your grandmother cook all this food?" She didn't let me answer. "Wait a minute—I know you worked today. Hoyt said he saw you at the tavern."

With relief, I heard nothing in her tone of voice or thoughts that she'd heard anything of the rumor that earlier in the day had circulated about me. Maybe Gran had been spared that particular grief. "That's right," I answered. "This was all Gran's handiwork. I'm just the clean-up crew and the delivery person."

She shook her head in amazement at the display. "We'll _never_ eat it all."

Maxine was paying my grandmother the highest of compliments and meant it genuinely. A farmer's wife takes great pride in being able to satisfy a full table of hungry workers with leftovers to spare.

"Where's she getting all her energy?" she continued. "After our morning at the nursery? I swear I can't keep up." And then she laughed. "I'll tell you what. When I'm her age, I hope I get my second wind."

I laughed, grateful for the pleasant spin Maxine had put on my Gran's uneven bursts of energy. "Me too, Maxine."

She gave me a hug. "Now go on and get out of here before somebody finds you another job."

I obeyed Maxine, though once at home, I found myself restless again. I wondered whether my vampire had stopped by while I was out. I flicked on the TV and wandered from channel to channel, not really paying any attention. My brain felt too tired to read, but I was keyed up too from the evening's excursion.

Suddenly, a news story broke in on one of the local stations, interrupting regular programming.

"Matthew, I am standing about one hundred yards from the Stoltzenfus farm, where a fire has been started at the site of the September 19 Amish massacre. Firefighters are here, doing what they can to contain the blaze, but as you can see, it's quickly raged out of control."

"Lisa, any idea what started the fire?"

"Yes, Matthew. There are reports from multiple witnesses that a few brief, but impressive rounds of fireworks went off both _inside and_ _behind_ the building around 10:55 PM, and that the fire started immediately after that and spread quickly."

"Have any injuries been reported?"

"No, there have been no injuries reported. Of course everyone is wondering _who_ started the fireworks and whether they evacuated safely. Rescue crews were able to make only a cursory search of the building before it became too dangerous for them. But—Matthew—the interesting part of this story is that authorities were _already_ on scene when the blaze began. Apparently a _secret_ _demolition operation_ had been scheduled for this evening, to take place starting around midnight. The plan _was not_ to burn down the building, but to dismantle it and remove the debris."

A flash of light at the window startled me. Bill. I jimmied the window open.

"Did you hear what happened?"

He shook his head. I filled him in as best as I could, based on the brief report I'd just heard. He took the news with his steady, measured expression. "Meet me?" he asked.

He was waiting by the front door by the time I checked on Gran and slipped on my shoes. Since I'd left my jacket in the car, I grabbed an old hoodie instead.

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested, offering me his arm. Linking my arm in his, we walked the barnyard path and cut into the woods just past our fallen tree. Tonight he was prepared with his flashlight, automatically pulling it out of his pocket and shining it on my path.

But he seemed to be sniffing me, which made me concerned my old jacket needed laundering. Frankly, after the once-over Sam had given me earlier in the day, I was tired of feeling like yesterday's hamburger at today's picnic. Before I could protest, he asked, "Where were you?"

"Why? What's the matter?" I felt myself tighten defensively.

"You were near somebody else."

"I'm near _somebody else_ all day long!" I burst out.

"This is different. He smells…different. Where were you?"

"He?" I couldn't keep the indignity out of my voice. Did he think I'd been _with _another man? And then suddenly I was wondering exactly what it was that vampires could smell.

We'd stopped near the far end of the orchard, which extended well past the barn and bordered on a corn field. Exasperated by his intense scrutiny, I yanked on the zipper of my hoodie, which promptly got stuck. He moved to help me with it, but I jerked away. I was in no mood to be cosseted.

"Well, well, well. Look who we have here."

I just about jumped out of my skin as a vampire suddenly appeared in front of us. The towering, muscular vampire with long, dark hair had clearly meant to spring himself on us. Nope, no flashlight calling card there. His face sneered with a nasty grin that gave full weight to his fangs. I knew right away I was in trouble.

And then suddenly there was another one, a tall, black female.

"It's our friend Bill," she said, accompanying, tall, dark, and menacing. "Here in Bird-in-Hand." The two of them were quite a pair. She wore her own sneer, though what I noticed most about her was her pink spandex outfit, which betrayed not a single misplaced bulge on her body.

"Blue Ball isn't the same without you," the tall male vamp whined in a fake tone. "We've been wondering what's been keeping your attention." He looked directly at me, lasciviously. My spine tingled in fear. And then to Bill he said, "Where are your manners?"

Bill stood next to me, stiff and stoic, his old farmlands tantalizingly close, insinuating themselves, still thriving. I blinked. In one moment, he was an Amish farmer, overseeing his crops, and in the next, he was a vampire, standing in the woods in the company of other vampires. "Malcolm, Diane," he said, "this is Sookie."

I was pleased as punch I wouldn't need to give them a handshake; I wanted nothing less than to touch them. But then I had another thought, one that shot icy shivers through my veins: Gran. For now we were out of earshot, especially her range of hearing, but still much too close for my comfort to our home.

Still, the dangers kept piling on. Suddenly another vampire was there, a shorter, heavily tattooed one, holding a young Hispanic man over one shoulder and none other than Janella Lennox over the other.

"Me too," he said.

"This is Liam," Bill replied. Our little woodland party had four vampires now.

"I believe you already know Janella," Liam said.

"Hey again, Sookie." She slid down his body with a self-satisfied, superior smile, strangely out-of-place with her haggard complexion and torn and singed clothes. If it was possible, she looked even worse for wear than she had only hours earlier.

"Don't forget about him," Liam added, looking fixedly at Malcolm as he tossed the Hispanic man onto the ground like he was abandoning a sack full of last week's Wal-Mart ads.

"That's Jerry," Malcolm said with little concern.

Jerry moaned loudly. I grabbed Bill's flashlight and gasped. He was injured. His hand, which he held curled against his chest, was a bloody mess of a thing. I couldn't tell what was there and what wasn't, though a huge flap of flesh hung from his palm like a half-peeled orange. His jeans were torn and bloody at his knee too, and upon closer inspection, I saw a piece of metal sticking straight out.

Immediately, I knelt down with him.

Malcolm prodded him with his foot.

I kept my mouth shut, but moved into action, removing my jacket and trying to spread it over Jerry. He was shivering audibly, rattling and puttering like an engine that didn't know how to quit. In all the tangled snarl of his awful pain, I caught something replaying over and over in his mind. A loud explosion. Bright lights. _Fireworks._

They'd been there. They'd been the ones to start the fire at the demolition site. Or it appeared he'd done the dirty work for them. Maybe Janella too. Startled, I looked up at Bill, who looked terribly pale and dazed. His fangs had run out. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

"He's hurt. Badly," I said, at a loss for what else to say besides the obvious. It was awful watching him suffer like that. I felt him in my head too, and remembering Camo Girl's pain and fear, nearly gagged. I didn't want any repeats.

"No kidding," Malcolm leaned down to sniff. "Oh yeah. Would you look at that? He's hurt. Real bad." Bent down at my level, Malcolm's face came close to mine. "Aren't you sweet?"

I was on no better grounds than a captured mouse being batted around by the paw of a lazy cat. He leaned in even closer, practically running his nose up the length of my neck. I froze, praying he wouldn't touch; I got the clear sense that this prey should hold still.

"Hmm," he breathed—unnecessarily—as though contemplating the world. The air forced out of him smelled like a used book store. Under other circumstances, it wouldn't have been unpleasant. He pulled back and stood up.

"She's crazy, I'm telling you," Janella said somewhat distractedly. My attention drawn to her again, I realized in horror that she'd opened Liam's pants, far enough to do things with him that were meant to be done only in privacy. I looked away, embarrassed by their crude public antics, which didn't escape Diane's notice.

"She's innocent," she pronounced to Bill as though it were a medical condition. In only a few languid, boneless strides, she reached him. "She can't possibly be filling all of your needs." She leaned into Bill, her tongue flicking at his ear. "Come on, now. Tell us what's been keeping you so busy lately."

He went into a stiff, motionless posture, almost like downtime. She peered at me, snaking one arm around Bill's bottom, while her other hand groped at his fly, stroking. There was already a bulge there. I felt sick.

"Poor Bill," she soothed.

Bill looked positively strained, bound so tightly that only one weak snip would spring the haywire.

"It's a pity there aren't enough humans to go around."

Then they were all looking at me, including Liam, who groaned briefly in satisfaction as he apparently had his own little happy moment with Janella.

I hadn't ever wanted to be so unloved and undesirable in my life.

Malcolm rubbed his hands together, positively gleefully. "So fresh and full of untapped potential."

Bill's eyes snapped from dazed and vacant to alert. "Sookie is mine," he said. That sure got their attention.

"Yours?" Liam scoffed. "That's not what Janella tells us." Sleeveless, his arm muscles bulged with movement as he zipped up his pants. A buxom pin-up girl labeled _Betty_, tattooed in blue-green ink, winked at me from another era.

Bill reached for me, pulling me close to him. His eyes, boring intently into mine, conveyed nothing but emptiness. I didn't know what to think. For once, I wished I could read his thoughts. Instinctively—nervously—I smiled back.

The effect, apparently, was hilarious.

Liam actually slapped his leg before pointing at both of us. Bill tucked me firmly behind him.

"Bill from Blue Ball. Blue. Ball. Bill." Malcolm chimed in, which brought on a new round of laughing, muted by the carpet of moss and leaf humus beneath our feet, soft and comforting. I wondered what Gran was doing. I hoped to God she was sound asleep. Lieber Gott, I hoped she was having a nice dream about getting two pickings in one season off her raspberry canes.

Diane stopped laughing first. "Poor Bill, you don't expect us to believe that this little thing fills up _all_ of your time here in Bird-in-Hand."

Liam pointed at me—again—this time as though he'd suddenly had a revelation. "Little birdie!" he chirped in a falsely cheerful tone. The effect was chilling.

Diane ignored him. "I can teach her a few things."

I didn't think she had knitting lessons in mind. "I'm not fucking interested." I prayed to God I'd said it strongly enough.

At my feet, Jerry moaned, as if reminding everyone he was still there. I stepped out from behind Bill.

"Let me take him to the hospital," I urged. "We can put him right in my car."

"I think I'd miss him," Malcolm said, much the same way he might miss the match to one of his socks.

I bent down to Jerry, smoothing my coat over his shoulder. The moment I touched him, I caught a flash of something that spoke out in the middle of all of his pain: Jerry had fully thrown his lot in with the vamps.

He seemed to have some sort of plan, though all I could tell clearly was that his commitment to them was near desperate. Nonetheless, I tried again, speaking directly to him, urgently. "You need to go to the hospital. They'll fix you up there."

"Freak," he snarled at me, which made them laugh again.

I stood to move away from him. It wasn't the first time I'd been called a freak and it wouldn't be the last.

"Looks like he doesn't want you," Malcolm gloated.

Diane, meanwhile, was moving uncomfortably close to my face. I'd backed into Bill, who'd wrapped his arms around me, but still she pressed forward with her thin, slithery body, getting as close as she possibly could without touching. Her mouth near my ear, she flicked her tongue. She definitely needed to put that thing away.

"I said, 'Sookie is mine!'" Bill said, his cold voice steely, brooking no argument.

Diane's eyes widened in surprise and delight. "Oooh!" she chortled loudly as she started dancing around.

"_This_ is going to be fun," Malcolm gloated. "I _love_ a good challenge."

And Jerry, as though on cue, moaned again. Malcolm actually rolled his eyes. "Such a killjoy. All right, all right," he said, prodding at the chore that was Jerry with his foot. He bent down and without any care, slung him over his shoulder. "_Catch_ you later."

And then they were gone—Malcolm, Jerry, Liam, Janella, and Diane—their raucous laughter fading away.

In the dead silence that ensued, I plunked straight down to the earth, with my back against a tree. Bill promptly joined me, actually slid down the trunk, and stretched his feet out next to mine.

"That didn't go well."

"No, it didn't," Bill readily agreed.

"Acquaintances of Harlen?" I guessed.

"Yes." Bill sighed. "When I heard he'd been by Virginville, I tried to head them off, send them in another direction, but…"

I let all of my pent-up fear loose. After the shock of it, great big sobs rolled over me.

Amish people are so stoic, I wondered how often Bill had ever witnessed someone letting loose with a big cry. He had the patience to sit and wait quietly, with not a single shift in posture or a throat clear. Eventually my crying slowed down to simply hiccups, sounding strangely like crickets in the darkness.

"The fire. They were there. They set off the fireworks. Or Jerry and Janella did."

Bill nodded.

"You knew?"

"I guessed. I could smell the smoke on their clothes.

"Why would they do such a thing?"

"I don't think they've figured out my connection yet. For now they wanted to cause harm and be mean. And draw attention."

Everyone, it seemed, wanted to piggyback on the press's attention. Except for Gran. "Just like the FoTS."

"In a way."

"You're not like them."

A long, weighted silence followed. "We've all been changed, Sookie. There's something still human in me, I believe. I feel it when I'm here, with you, near my old farmlands."

Even I could feel them pressed against us at that moment. I remembered his working the fields he'd owned. Only the night before, we'd sat at his coffee table playing a game of Scrabble.

But I knew there was a _but_ coming.

"But I'm not human any more. I survive by drinking blood," he said in a tone that could have conveyed either truculence or resignation. Or maybe a little of both.

"_Synthetic _blood," I added.

"It's not the same. The instinct is still there—the thrill of the hunt. That won't ever go away, no matter how many cases of synthetic blood I drink."

"You're different from them. You're not that cruel."

Bill sighed, as though what he were about to say came only at great effort.

"Malcolm and Liam and Diane have been vampires for much longer than I have, and for a long time when vampires lived in secrecy. Life was much harder then, but still, not all of us think the Great Revelation was a good thing. Those three are happy to live as vampires, the old way, without having to follow any human rules. They enjoy flaunting themselves, making a spectacle of themselves, and don't care what it means for the rest of us. In fact, if it hurts the rest of us, all the better for them."

I thought hard about what he was saying, though I knew it would be a while before I could make any real sense of it. "You've been with them," I finally said.

"Yes, from time to time, before I moved back here." Bill answered plainly. And before I even had time to assimilate this bit of knowledge, Bill took a big conversational leap. "You've already seen what vampires are capable of first hand."

I felt an immediate flare of anger. Bill must have sensed his misstep; before I even had a chance to unleash on him, he added, "I'm sorry I drew their attention here, and I'm sorry you've been drawn into it."

I shook my head, thoroughly confused. Amidst the swirl of muddling thoughts, there was one specific thing that was bobbing to the surface. "You said I was _yours_."

"Yes, as a way to protect you from them. By vampire tradition, once I declare that you're _mine,_ no other vampire can try to feed on you."

That didn't sound especially promising.

"Jerry and Janella..."

He shook his head, cutting me off. "Not like that. I wouldn't let that happen to you."

That still left a lot of questions open in my mind, ones I couldn't even begin to formulate.

"I hope I can still call on you," he pressed.

"I don't know," I acknowledged. "I need some time to think about all of this."

He nodded.

"Will they be back?"

"I don't believe tonight."

I was too tired to think beyond the moment. I simply wanted to go to bed and put this whole long day behind me. Tomorrow would be a day off, a day for relaxing and doing chores and other normal things.

I stood, brushing myself off and realizing my old jacket was gone. Full of Jerry's blood.

"Good night. _I'll_ call _you_," I said pointedly as I handed him his flashlight and began feeling my way to the edge of the woods. He helped me get to the barnyard, where he stopped. He was still waiting there when I opened up the house and let myself in. I went straight to bed, thinking of nothing but my day off, and sleeping a deep, unbroken sleep.


	16. My Day Off

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.**  
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><p><strong>My Day Off <strong>

From deep within the old orchard, the distinct call of a wood thrush woke me up the next morning, his flute-like yodeling raising goose bumps on my arms. Abruptly he stopped, seemed to vanish. In the foreground, the incessant, simple cheeps of sparrows were pierced by the raucous call of a blue jay.

Today was my day off. Splashing water on my face and tidying up my ponytail, I decided that regardless of what my calendar said, the word of the day was going to be _quotidian__, _meaning _daily _or _ordinary._ I'd catch my breath by doing all of those everyday kinds of chores that regular folks typically do. Throw in a couple loads of laundry. Change the sheets on my bed. Clean the bathroom. Run to the grocery store and the library. I was due to stop by Sarah's store and check on the quilt too.

Tugging on a lightweight sweatshirt, I shuffled out to the kitchen, uncertain of what I'd find. Our schedule had been rattled—no doubt—and where I'd once been guaranteed to find Gran already well into her morning routine, I found empty silence. I started a large pot of coffee and then stepped outside for the paper. Bobbi scooted out with me, batting open Gran's bedroom door with a "mowr" and darting past me on the barnyard path. She stopped to shake her ears and lick a paw as I hiked up the bank.

I waited until I was seated at the kitchen table with a mug of steaming coffee before I opened the paper. The entire front page, as I'd suspected it would be, was devoted to last night's latest Amish country melee. A large photograph depicted the glowing blaze of the Stoltzenfus farmhouse before a night sky. Several smaller, grainier photos showed the silhouettes of two figures, arms outstretched above their heads. "Fireworks Destroy House, Alert Public," the headline proclaimed. "Vampires Suspected." According to the accompanying article, witnesses had seen at least two vampires "celebrating and whooping it up" at the scene. No one had been able to identify them or actually confirm they'd seen them setting off the fireworks, though of course that's what a lot of folks were assuming.

In this case, they weren't too far off the mark.

"Look at that!" Gran exclaimed, peering over my shoulder. She sank down next to me in her chair near the stove. I slid the whole newspaper to her.

"What happened? Goodness, were you there?" she asked in a breathless voice.

"No. I got there early and stayed until Maxine came. The fireworks must have gone off about an hour or so after I left. I think they were still setting up and organizing."

"I can't believe it." And then after a moment, she suddenly jumped up. "I have to call Maxine!"

When I had first moved in with Gran, the phone had operated on a party line, shared by other households. Eavesdropping had been strongly discouraged, of course. That particular rule had been easy for _me_ to follow since I'd overheard more than my fair share of yammering. But _talking _on the party line had given me a taste of what it might be like to hang around a telepath. I hadn't particularly liked it.

While Gran checked in with Maxine—I could hear her gasping—I picked up the paper again. Exploding fireworks had rapidly set the farmhouse ablaze and impeded anyone from gaining access. The fire trucks—already on their way for the demolition—had arrived quickly, but not quickly enough to extinguish the flames before they had engulfed the house.

Answering questions about the secret nature of the demolition, Alcee Beck said, "Given the intense interest in this story, the police department, in coordination with other groups in the community, decided to conduct the demolition of the Stoltzenfus farmhouse in the evening to ensure a smooth operation." I wondered whether that had been the purpose of yesterday's cop convention at the tavern.

"Maxine said they got off some big fireworks before the house set fire." Gran announced, hanging up the phone. Judging from the looks of Jerry's hand, I'd guessed they hadn't been playing with sparklers. "But it sounds like no one was hurt. At least that's what Maxine said." She nodded toward the paper.

"No. No report of injuries here," I confirmed, of course all the while imagining Jerry's bloodied hand and the protrusion from his leg.

She nodded again. After a moment's pause, she said, "Well, it's done now," and then sat quietly, gazing out the window.

Gran had been a part of the recovery effort, first at the firehouse and then with the demolition plan, however peripheral. And though destruction of the farmhouse had been last night's goal, I had to believe that this sort of outcome—out of the community's control—was less than satisfying.

"Ja, vell," she finally said, shifting in her chair. "Maybe we can all start to move on. And that poor family can rebuild. Their home, anyway."

I guessed the Amish community of Paradise would settle into a new sort of normal. I had to think that in spite of their faith, the shootings would leave their mark. How could they not?

"All right," I said, drawing us both out of our silence. "Today's my day off."

"Oh, will you take me to the farmer's market?" she asked, brightening and sounding so positively pleased and excited, I could hardly refuse. "I'll treat us to lunch. And we'll save room for waffles and ice cream."

For the first time, I noticed Gran had a bad case of bed head, with long wisps of hair dangling free of her braids. Her nightgown was askew, too, lying crooked on her shoulders. "Do you need more slippery elm?" I asked cautiously.

"Naw." She waved a dismissive hand. "A pinch goes a mile. I want to pick up some more plants."

_Cabbages,_ I thought. Gran always liked to put in those plants with ruffled, rosette-like leaves with pinkish-purple centers. Whatever they were, they resembled nothing more than fancy cabbages to me, but they topped Gran's list of fall favorites, along with mums and pansies. She usually filled a couple of window boxes and a large whiskey barrel stationed by the barn, near the parking spot. I wondered why she hadn't picked them up when she was out with Maxine yesterday, but it mattered little since she seemed to want to get out of the house today.

Together, we set out our plan for the day. I'd run a few errands on my own in the morning before returning to pick her up for a trip to the farmer's market. That would leave some time later in the afternoon for loose house chores and puttering. The walnut mess in the smokehouse could wait until another day.

Gran was taking a shower when I was ready to go, so I left a brief note on the table. I filled up my gas tank, got some cash at the MAC, and stopped by Wal-Mart for vacuum bags, bathroom cleaner, and milk (cheaper here than anywhere else). And then, having accomplished those chores, I was ready to stop by Sarah's store.

The fabric store where Sarah worked lay on the outskirts of Paradise on a busily-traveled route. Once slow and meandering, the road now had more of a highway kind of feel, where cars traveled fast enough to spray gravel right alongside folks riding scooters, bicycles, and horse-and buggies. In between businesses that had been there for years and years, like the Ziegler family's molasses plant, more recent ventures had sprung up, buoyed by the tourist industry. "Rent motorized scooters here!" advertised one sign. "Amish Souvenirs," read another, next to, "Amish country helicopter rides," "Paradise Mini Golf," and "Giant Water Slide." A huge billboard depicting a downcast Amish woman in hazy morning light promoted _Liza Shunned,_ a dinner theater production of a popular Amish romance novel. "Doughy sweet," Gran had generally said of the genre. "Like under-baked apple dumplings with too much sugar." Arlene had been more critical, scoffing, "Bonnet rippers, my rosy round ass."

I tried not to think too hard about any of it, knowing how much tourists bolstered our economy, for Amish folks and everyone else who lived here, my own job included.

In the middle of this development, a plain nondescript building sided in white aluminum advertised "Fabric sold here." The part of the building facing the road probably had been someone's house originally. Now, a long, narrow, one-story addition jutted out the back. I parked in the gravel lot near a window decorated with a swag of calico fabric and a "Sale" sign. A lone car sat in the lot next to mine, closer to the entrance. Noting the bus stop sign on the opposite side of the road, I guessed Sarah rode public transportation to work.

When I pulled open the steel-framed glass door, a jangle of bells announced my arrival. "Wilkum," the sign said, which I guessed was for the Englishers' benefit more than anyone else. Sarah glanced away from the customer she was helping to nod and say a quiet hello.

I scanned the room and started browsing. Bright fluorescent lights hanging on metal chains from the high ceiling lit up the fabrics, arranged by color in a rainbow-pattern around the perimeter of the room. In the center, toward the back half of the store, several short aisles held other quilting notions—anything from the extra sturdy quilting thread I'd seen my Gran use, to scissors, stays, rotary cutters, cutting mats, and pattern books. There was space for a long cutting table and check-out counter too, and a metal carousel with Amish country postcards. Off to one side, a long staircase leading straight up to the second floor was blocked with a yellow plastic chain. It looked like a powder room had been fitted underneath the staircase. Beyond the steps, at the rear of the store, a doorway led to another room.

"Sarah," the customer was saying, "I like this fabric better. What do you think?" She was definitely looking to ingratiate herself and had adopted a bright, cheerful tone that stuck out in contrast to the dark film that seemed to generally stick to her thoughts.

I stepped into the adjoining room, slightly darker and narrower and more cramped, with plain cement floors scattered with scraps of mismatched, unbound rugs. One whole wall and several moveable racks advertised sale fabrics and remnants. Two other rows held bolts of Amish wardrobe staples—white organdies, sturdy black fabrics, and other solid colors such as blues and burgundies. I browsed through these aisles until it seemed that Sarah was wrapping up with her customer.

"Fifty percent down will be enough to start," she said.

"I'm so happy you agreed to do more for us. When can you have them ready?"

"Stop by in a few weeks."

"Oh, really?" The customer sounded disappointed.

Sarah hesitated. She was wondering how many women could help and wishing she didn't have to take on this particular job. "If you stop back in a week, I'll know better," she finally said.

"Oh, good!" the customer practically squealed, clearly hearing a _maybe_ kind of response as a _yes_. She winked at me and smiled. "The service here is _excellent_."

I decided I'd go rummaging a bit more—since I was here on a mission for Bill, I rationalized. She was a mean-spirited person, though she didn't necessarily understand that about herself. I didn't like or trust her.

She'd turned back to Sarah. "God bless you," she said. "I know this is an extremely difficult time for all of you, and I admire your courage and strength and wisdom in the Lord.

Embarrassed, Sarah's head bent down slightly, a gesture I guessed the customer would misinterpret as a prayerful position.

Sure enough, the customer continued. "Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

That kind of praise and flattery went hard against the Amish grain, which strove for bone-deep humility. _Hochmut,_ or prideful high-mindedness, was a huge Amish sin. No Amish person, no matter how devout, would dare assume she was going to heaven. Even preachers regularly prefaced their sermons with some form of self-deprecation and apology for their shortcomings.

Sarah lifted her head to say a Bible quote aloud in High German. I couldn't quite catch all of it, but it had something to do with humbling yourself before God. She cast a glance at me as I heard her thinking the verse numbers in English.

The customer smiled in delight. "What's that?"

"That's the Bible verse you just quoted," Sarah outright lied.

"Is that how you say it in your language?"

"Ja."

"Amen." She gave it a try, mangling and tripping over words, smiling along the way. Sarah nodded encouragingly.

"Ja, very good," Sarah said.

"Oh, I feel like this was meant to be."

Sarah nodded, a stiff smile turning up her lips. "Denki," she said, taking the check.

"You're very welcome," the customer replied, ingratiatingly emphasizing every word. "I'll give you a call in a few days." On her way out, she added directly to me, "She is _so talented_." Though I had no doubt of Sarah's skills, I had the unpleasant feeling that coming from this woman's lips, the flattery was superficial at best.

Sarah's eyes were averted from mine. She quickly bent behind the counter. I could still hear her thinking—loudly and clearly—that same Bible verse, as though she were trying to undo the unpleasant exchange. Eventually, after some rummaging, she pulled out a clipboard, marked with masking tape on which she'd written "S. Stackhouse" in neat, block letters. She'd clipped fabric samples on it and had penciled in some designs.

"Such pretty blues," I said immediately, reaching out to touch and admire the fabrics.

"You said you liked blue, so I picked out a few different samples, and then depending on which color blue is your favorite, we can pick out some other fabrics to match and complement."

"This one, definitely," I said, touching a sample that reminded me of Gran's eyes now, slightly faded, but beautiful in that comfortable, worn kind of way.

"That's pretty," she agreed. She rifled through her samples a bit. "Do you like peach?"

I nodded. Sarah removed all but a few samples from the clipboard, set them aside, and with the blue fabric on hand, began walking the perimeter, pulling bolts like a pro. I felt slightly shy in the process, not a common feeling for me.

As she pulled the bolts, we laid them out on the cutting table, located opposite the checkout counter. Within a short time, we had quite a stack, and Sarah started fine-tuning, pulling some out and setting aside, and then adding one or two more.

"How's that?" she finally asked.

"It's lovely," I answered without hesitation.

Consulting a diagram of the pattern we'd agreed on earlier, she explained how she'd work in the colors. She grabbed a few colored pencils. "It's hard to show with these pencils, but the idea would be to work the blues here in the center of the design and use the peaches as background. And then here along the borders, we'd use some of these fabrics that have blue _and_ peach. Maybe some brighter blues and oranges too."

She did a quick coloring sample to show the effect. "It'll be beautiful." I couldn't help but feel excited I'd have a nice surprise for Gran. I'd have to invent some excuse, like maybe that I'd won it at a raffle, but after the lies I'd already dished out, that particular story would make for easy dissembling. She could toss the ratty thing on her bed, a wagon-wheel number that neither of us had cared for. Her own mother had made it using cloth scraps, and though Gran had admired her practicality, she'd always seen it for just what it was—worn, discarded clothing. And though Gran had herself been a quilter, she'd never taken the time to sew herself a new one.

Sarah hesitated. I could feel a bit of tumult in her head. "How soon would you like it?"

"It's no rush," I immediately reassured her, glad she had some other business, even if it was with that nasty woman.

"Come back in a couple of weeks, and I'll have the first block finished. If you like it, I'll be able to piece the rest of it together for you quickly."

I pulled out my checkbook, but she stopped me. "After the next step, you can pay another third."

I hesitated. Bill would rather I pay her now, so she'd have the money, but I didn't think I should make too much of a thing of it.

"All right."

As I started to make a motion to leave, she broached another conversation. "How's the farm?" She meant not the blueberries, but the people working it. I guessed being out in Honey Creek was lonely business—separated from the family she'd lived with for decades—without much opportunity to visit. So close, but so far away.

"I saw Tom the other day, mulching the bushes and weeding."

Sarah needed no further prompting, unleashing a stream of gossip about Tom and his marriage prospects, how he was still on the young side, but ought to start seriously looking soon. Rumor was he'd been seeing a young woman, but Sarah hadn't known who she was.

"You've heard?" she asked mischievously, and strangely enough, I felt something from her akin to a surge of hope, along the lines of an expectation that I in particular ought to know something. I'd known the Amish folks generally thought of me as a hopeless _maidel_—who didn't?—but I hadn't known they'd considered me a gossip hub. Or maybe she was just assuming I'd heard something because the family was still renting farmlands from us.

"No," I said lightly. "I'm not so much in the loop anymore now that I'm putting all of my hours in at the Virginville Tavern."

Bill had liked his family gossip in measured doses. In fact, I'd been real careful about what I'd dished out to him. He'd clearly wanted to have a general sense that the farm was still running and that everyone was well, but the specific details had been bittersweet for him since he'd had to keep his distance from them. So close, but so far away.

We said our goodbyes after chatting about Bill's middle child, Sarah Isabelle, who Sarah said really liked to kick up her heels. I left feeling happy and certain that no matter what happened between Bill and me, I'd keep in touch with Sarah and continue to do what I could to help.

After leaving the fabric shop, I drove straight home to pick up Gran. She'd put on her favorite day dress, both practical and feminine, and was working a crossword puzzle. As soon as I entered the kitchen, she jumped up, pocketbook in hand. Climbing with her up the bank to my car, I observed she had about as much energy as she always did. She was no spring chicken, but she still had oomph, owing in large part to her sturdy attitude. Though I knew her arthritis hurt, she didn't often let her aches and pains get in her way. Or at least she didn't let on they slowed her down.

"Now it's us girls," she said today, once we were both settled in and driving down Hummingbird Road.

I told her about my trip to Wal-Mart, and how I'd run into Marcia Albanese.

"Her niece is working at the tavern now, right? What was her name? Unusual one…"

"Kennedy," I supplied. And then we chatted about customers who had come and gone in the past few days, just like old times. I'd missed her company.

I guess I should have figured the farmer's market would be a mob scene since it was _the _place to catch a wide swath of local color, Englishers and Amish folks alike. And of course after last night's fireworks display, the press was here in full force. We saw their news vans with their tall antennae scattered about in the grassy field that served as a parking lot.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Gran said in her I've-had-enough-of-this-nonsense tone.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"No," Gran said staunchly. "We came here for something, and that's what we're going to do." She was thinking it so strongly that I couldn't help but note that she had corn pie and pepper cabbage in mind for lunch, two of her favorites from the lunch counter.

There wouldn't have been any use trying to change Gran's mind, and she would have been offended if I'd tried. "I think I'd better look for a spot around back," I said, surveying the section of lot where we normally parked, already jam packed with additional cars circling. The sectioned-off portion of the field for Amish farmers appeared to be fairly full too, their buggies lining two long rows. Their horses would be stabled elsewhere. Gran had always taken Jason and me to look at them, as well as the farm animals that would go up for auction.

"How 'bout I drop you off by the main entrance?" I asked doubtfully. It looked like a hectic spot, but it would cut down on all the walking she'd need to do today.

"That should be fine," she said somewhat irritably.

"Should we meet at Yoder's?" I asked, referring to the lunch spot popular with locals.

"_Ja_." She nodded vigorously, and again I heard her corn-pie-and-pepper-cabbage mantra.

I guessed a lot of the traffic was simply a result of first-time visitors unfamiliar with the usual pattern of flow, gumming up the works. "Watch him!" Gran said a few times, pointing out a car that had suddenly stopped or was pulling in front of us; more than once I gritted my teeth at her co-piloting.

When we finally reached the main entrance, she turned to me with a big smile and a wink along with a "Wonderful-gut," relieving the tension in the car. "I'll keep at Yoder's, and you park the car awhile."

Once I pulled away from Gran, I was able to easily navigate to the back and find a parking spot. The walk was longer through this entrance, wending through a maze-like portion well-established with small vendors. A lot of these sellers came from New York and brought a wide variety of goods—gardening gloves, knives, old magazines. Next to one space displaying records contained in old plastic milk crates, another booth held plastic packages of underwear, wrapped by the threes. The crowd was thick and disorganized, starting and stopping abruptly.

"Sookie!" someone called. I turned to see Barbara Beck, Bird-in-Hand's librarian.

I stepped to the side to barely avoid a glancing blow from a double wide stroller steered by a harried mother. "Hi Barbara," I greeted her, feeling antsy about making Gran wait.

"I haven't seen you in a while. Seems we keep missing each other."

Barbara was a pleasant librarian who wasn't prone to gossiping, which I personally had always especially appreciated. At the moment, I had to give her some extra credit, too, for putting on her most gentle smile while trying hard to push from her mind the video clips she'd seen of Gran's moment of fame.

"I've missed coming in," I acknowledged, realizing how little time I'd had to read. I made a note to add it to today's to-do list.

"If you can get in within the next few days, I've got the first of a Carolyn Haines series set aside for Adele. Last time she came in with Everlee, we were talking about it."

"Thank you! Gran will be tickled pink. Three today, right?" The library operated on such a shoestring budget, it staggered its hours, opening late afternoon into evening on several days a week, and morning until early afternoon on other days.

"Yes, right. I'll be there." And at that moment, a bubble of shoppers pushed through, knocking Barbara straight into me. "Oh! Excuse me!" she said. I reached out to steady her; the direct contact with her impressed on me a solid image, one that upset me greatly.

"This crowd!" I commiserated with her, all the while trying to push my worries aside and hold my composure steady.

If Barbara noticed the change in me, she didn't broadcast it. "Listen, I don't want to hold you up. Maybe I'll see you later today?"

"Yes, definitely. My grandmother too."

We parted in our own directions into the masses. Immediately, I wished for a straight line, a clear path between here and the lunch counter, without any damn oversized strollers. Those stupid things weren't meant for tight places like this.

But really, what had me most upset was the image I'd plucked out of Barbara's thoughts like a hot potato. Somewhere here at the farmer's market, Barbara had seen them, those Fellowship members in their white polo shirts with the spiky sun symbol. They were passing out flyers and carrying signs with pictures—photographs of Gran. I wasn't even certain her likeness had been lifted from the footage near the firehouse. "Sympathy for the Devil," the caption read. Judas, I hoped Gran hadn't seen them. Worse, I hoped those fools hadn't seen and recognized her.

More than once, I considered making a beeline for the front entrance to check that she wasn't currently being held up. But I would pass near Yoder's first anyway. In fact, it was in my sight when a large group pushed into the aisle, completely blocking the path. They were the shammy people, stopping to hear the sales pitch. "Check this out, folks," the salesman was saying. He wore a microphone attached to a headband so he could demonstrate. "This here ain't no magic trick. Right here in real time I'm gonna show yous." And then he proceeded with his spiel, first making a show of his two-liter bottle of Kutztown cola. He took a swig from it, earning an appreciative chuckle from the spectators, before dumping it on the carpet laid out on the table before him. I didn't like the man. I thought his Dutchified accent was a fraud.

By the time I finally broke through the crowd to reach the entrance to Yoder's, I'd witnessed the shammy guy mop up and wring out nearly all of the cola and pour it back into the bottle. I dearly hoped he didn't take a second swig of it, which seemed to be what a lot of these folks were expecting. He seemed desperate enough to do it.

Yoder's was packed. I did a quick scan, my eyes jumping from table to table to the counter and then back to the tables, all of them fully occupied.

Gran was nowhere to be found.

"Sookie!" she called.

I cocked my head, uncertain in the midst of the commotion whether I was hearing her out loud or through my disability.

"Sookie!"

My eyes did another sweep of the room, and in spite of all my efforts to stay calm, I felt that lurch in my stomach that something was very wrong. I looked still one more time, specifically checking for white polo shirts.

"Sookie!"

Where _was_ she?

I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to cut through the clutter of all other minds. But my telepathy didn't work like that. It wasn't like I could turn down the other stations, while tuning into only hers. Dammit, what good was it if I couldn't use it when I needed it?

Frustrated I opened my eyes again. Table by table, I took tabs on everyone in Yoder's.

"Sookie!" her voice called again. Was she in trouble? I took a deep breath to steady myself.

And then she was there.

She was waving, tucked in the far end of the counter, overshadowed by the hulking body of a drink machine next to her. She'd saved a stool for me and hadn't wanted to get up to lose our spot. Relieved, I didn't even mind—much—when a burly man shoved his way in front of me to grab a table that had suddenly cleared of a Mennonite family.

"I'm sorry, Gran," I said, plopping next to her. I got caught up in the crowds."

She was singing loudly and cheerfully to herself, a clear sign she was hiding something from me. I glanced at her face for a clue, which revealed little. "Such a busy day," she agreed. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have dragged you out here if I had known the crowds would be this awful."

"But now it's us girls," I joked, and we both laughed at our secluded corner. Gran relaxed, her singing eased, and then all I had to listen to, aside from the background murmur, was an occasional customer who'd come up to the refrigerator to select a drink. "Aw, crap. The diet birch beer is all yet." and "Hmm…Coke or Sprite?"

I told her about running into Barbara Beck, which made her excited about stopping by for the Carolyn Haines. "Ooh! That's the series about the southern gal who solves mysteries," she informed me. And then we chatted about her fall gardening plans. In general, I tried to stay out of her way in the garden unless she gave me a clear direction to do something; otherwise, she had a tendency to get snappish. Today, she acknowledged I could help her clear out the tomato patch. "Pull all the vines and put them in the burn pile," she instructed. "But I'll pick all the green tomatoes first. They'll still ripen." I nodded, remembering well the tomato chutney she'd cook up every year around Thanksgiving with all of the leftover summer tomatoes. We talked more about plans to repair the smokehouse. She laughed again about the stashed booty and reminisced about Grandpa Mitchell's grexing over the squirrels' setting off his traps.

When we were finished, we paid our bill and left an extra generous tip. I'd even managed to relax and set aside my concerns about the Fellowship. In fact, I felt like a real member of the "Ladies Who Lunch Club," happy to be on the receiving end of it this time.

As we left Yoder's, the crowd was still thick in the main corridor, which prompted us to agree to go right to the garden vendor without considering any other shopping, including waffles and ice cream. "I'll bake us some apple dumplings at home," Gran promised. I looked askance while she picked out a few ornamental cabbages plus some purple mums. She chatted with the vendor, a man named Henry who wore overalls and smoked a pipe.

"I'll bring the car," I offered, pulling her wagon to the edge of the garden area, where she could sit on some wooden crates.

I figured it would be faster to walk around the building in the parking lot to get to my car. Traffic seemed just as bad as it had been when we'd arrived, with cars circling in tightly congealed patterns. Things seemed to worsen by the time I found my car and merged into the main pattern . In fact, it completely stopped at one point. I couldn't tell what the hold-up was because I'd gotten stuck behind a delivery truck. I flicked on the radio and started humming, forcing myself to stay relaxed. _Quotidian,_ I reminded myself. Today was an ordinary day off. I'd just had a nice lunch with Gran. Traffic would eventually move, and then we'd take a trip to the library. Meanwhile, Gran had a quiet place to stay put off her feet while she waited. I had a little laugh to myself when I thought about the cell phone with the pre-paid plan that Jason had bought her once. She'd done everything in her power to not use it—most often forgetting to charge it—until she'd finally accidentally run over it with her car. "Donnerwetter! It must have fell out of the car door pocket," she'd explained, and I knew it had bothered her most that she'd wasted money. Jason had finally given up on it.

Distracted by a jagged edge on a nail, I pulled out a nail file and was in the middle of humming another tune when an agitated wave of thoughts rolled over me, like a whole crowd of people upset at once.

_What in the world_? My heart jumped in my chest. I shook myself, reminded myself that everything was okay, that after the past few weeks, I was simply being hyper-sensitive about trouble.

But I couldn't shake it. The driver in front of me eventually got out of his truck to look. When he didn't immediately return, I abandoned my car too. Later, I would discover I'd even left my keys in the ignition.

Up ahead, folks had gathered right near the garden vendor. Off to one side, a group of men—Amish and Englishers—were trying to lead a mule hitched to a wagon. Part of the problem was that cars had gotten so jammed, there was little space for maneuvering.

Watching the coaxing and tugging, I was horrified to also notice scattered crates that looked similar to the ones where Gran had been sitting. I dodged a few people before I got stuck in the meat of the crowd; it thickened and gathered stronger, radiating a confusing jumble of agitation and excitement. Suddenly and thoroughly panicked, I started pushing forward.

"Watch it, lady!" someone snapped at me.

"Anyone know CPR?" a man's voice bellowed.

"Don't move her! Don't move her!"

There was loose gravel beneath my feet, and bits of broken macadam that I felt through the thin soles of my flats. A woman off to my left was throwing up. A big man in a trucker's cap and gray hooded jacket, his hands jammed in his pockets stepped sideways, directly into my path, as he craned his neck to see.

"Move it!" I shouted, and when he didn't immediately respond, looking at me with a startled, dumbstruck expression through wire-frame glasses, I grabbed his bent arm and pulled. It was thick and loose and flabby.

"Gran?" I called out. "Gran!"

_Gran_ seemed to be the special word that got everyone's attention. _Did they know her?_ Almost magically, the crowd parted, and for one last beautifully crazy moment, I almost giggled, thinking of Charlton Heston as Moses parting the Red Sea, with his shaggy gray beard and billowing red robes. A clear path lay between me and the crumpled body I saw on the ground, dropped in place like a soiled wet bath towel.

Gran?

Oh, God, it was Gran.

Before I even touched her, I knew she was gone.


	17. Alive

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.**  
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><p><strong>Alive<strong>

Gran had probably been struck slack and formless before she'd hit the ground. I doubted she'd had any life left in her to break her fall, or had felt the coarse, upward slam of the macadam. The blow to her forehead that had felled her left a sunken dent, cruelly and deceptively like a fender bender.

I sank next to her and tried desperately to gather all of her in my arms like a bundle of loose laundry.

"Don't touch her!" someone barked, stupidly concerned about exacerbating a spinal cord injury. "Dead," someone else said. Or maybe they thought it.

She wouldn't want to be seen so undignified, with her impossibly bent legs exposed and sprawled, stockings torn. These gawking strangers shouldn't be witness to it.

"Gran!" I sobbed, frantically tugging at the paisley fabric of her dress, soft and worn from many washings, now peppered with grit. I brushed at it gently but thoroughly, single-mindedly.

"Honey," someone said, rubbing my shoulder, pressing into me _her_ image of my gran, grotesquely disfigured and frightening and strange, not at all like the person _I_ saw on my lap, who was still _Gran_. I could still hear her in my mind. We'd had lunch together—corn pie and pepper cabbage—only minutes ago, right before the fancy cabbages and mums and pansies. Us girls, tucked behind the soda machine. It was only a little leap—a sleight of mind—to picture her rising from this position. "Ach! I got it so in my spools," she'd say, bending and stretching her back. And then, linking her pocketbook through her bent arm, she'd urge, "But let's get to the library now once."

I shook my head and jerked out of the stranger's intrusive touch. "Don't look at her!" I shouted. "Stop it!"

A murmur rippled through the crowd. My mental shields had dropped completely; a mash of thoughts and images of Gran's death had rushed me from all directions, confusing and maddening, spiked here and there with a clarity I wouldn't wish on anyone. I put my hands over my ears to block it all. It didn't help, of course, and only served to shut me inside myself with my own strange sobs.

"Ma'am," someone else said, crouched low, in front of me. He was an EMT, I guessed from his uniform, an embroidered badge affixed to his breast pocket and one of those walkie-talkie devices clipped to his shoulder. A long, spiral cord stretched down. His pale cheeks and chin showed the dark undergrowth of a beard threatening to sprout at any moment; I imagined that's how he looked no matter how recently he'd shaved. A thick moustache perched atop his lip, so compact and thick and tidy, it threatened to pop off like a Mr. Potato Head accessory. His shirt was white—blindingly so—with permanently pressed creases on his short sleeves. A crew-neck t-shirt peeked out above the top button.

"Can you help me get her out of here?" I asked, as though he might have offered me a beverage instead.

"Yes. May I see her?"

His name was Tim, according to his nameplate, and according to a random thought I plucked from his head, he lived at home with a dog named Tammy or Taffy, which somehow eased my worries. I relaxed my arms, still folded over Gran. He eased her off my lap, taking care not to drag her across the harsh macadam.

"Oh, no!" I gasped at this startlingly new view of Gran, stretched out before me. I'd smeared a bit of her blood and dirt down the front of her dress as I'd smoothed it. A new round of sobs seized my chest; I could neither release them nor hold them in. It made no sense. Absolutely none of it made sense.

"Sookie." Someone said my name. Startled, I looked around and realized the crowd was being pushed back by police officers.

Kenya reached down to help me up. "You can see her again," she assured me, leading me to an ambulance. Someone—not Tim—took my blood pressure and shone a penlight in my eyes. Tim was still with my Gran, accompanied by some other uniformed folks. I stood to re-join him.

Kenya stepped toward me again. "We sent a patrol car out to Jason," she said, guiding me to the other side of the ambulance.

"All right," I answered numbly, and it was only after she'd pulled up a bench for me to sit that I understood Jason had to hear the news too. I briefly thought of calling him on my cell phone, but realized I'd left it in my car.

"My car. I left my car." I pointed behind me, which had been the direction it had been located—at my back—when I'd left it, only clearly I was now turned around. "And my purse. In the traffic jam," I explained.

Kenya looked off to her right. "We'll take care of it," she said with a confidence that normally would have been reassuring; at the moment, I simply didn't care.

Andy Bellefleur suddenly appeared out of nowhere. "Sookie," he said gruffly, barely looking me in the eye. Immediately I tensed, hooking into a fine rage. I wasn't in the mood for his curiosity about my freakishness and whether this is exactly the kind of thing that happens to people who hang around freaks. Andy didn't ask me any questions, but I knew he also wanted to know all kinds of things about how this had happened to Gran. How she'd gotten here, what she was doing here. Where she was exactly when the incident had happened. What was happening immediately before the incident. How her head had had met up with a mule's hooves.

"I didn't see it," I snapped at him. "You talk to _them_, Andy Bellefleur!" I pointed all around me. "_They_ saw it." I stopped my finger somewhat randomly at a plump woman in tight jeans and a straining t-shirt, her ample breasts poking out like bullets. She had a round, innocent face with milky smooth skin, and when my finger jabbed in her direction, she looked away, mortification and mild disgust crossing her face. I wanted him to gather all of their thoughts and banish them for the scourges that they were. I clasped my hands over my head and squeezed, wishing it would all simply whoosh out of me. My own thoughts weren't rational; that much I knew. No, I'd kept enough of a finger hold on reality to understand the truth of my situation. That was a real pity.

\/ \/

Kevin and Kenya had my car taken to Gran's house and dropped me off with Jason.

"Get cleaned up, for Chrissakes," he said, once they left, the blame radiating from him like a heat shimmer. I escaped to the bathroom, where my own face in the mirror shocked me, dirty and smudged with makeup, expressing something foreign and incomprehensible. I scrubbed and scrubbed and then sat on the fuzzy-lined toilet seat as I tried to tamp down a lot of terrible feelings I'd worked my whole life to control. Maybe that was the worst moment, or maybe it was only one of a whole stream of them; in any case, if I could have stepped out of my own life right then, left the shell of it to inhabit a new one, I would have done it in a heartbeat.

I settled for getting out of there.

I called Tara, who came to pick me up.

Of course it was awful walking back into Gran's home without her—undisturbed from when we'd left it earlier in the day—but it had to be done. Tara made a beeline for the refrigerator and started rummaging. "Can I get you something to eat?"

I shook my head. I couldn't imagine choking down anything.

We sat at the farmhouse table numbly, the hours melting away through scattered and aimless conversations, nauseating and disorienting, like riding a roller coaster with your eyes closed. There was no guide, I'd realized in dismay, for what to do with yourself when you're left untethered in the world. Eventually I grabbed the half-finished crossword puzzle Gran had started earlier in the day. Tara wrinkled her nose at it, but when I asked her for a four-letter word for a "course activity," she responded.

"Race," she answered.

"I think it starts with a 'g.' Because 'sultry summer stretches' are 'dog days,' right?"

"All right."

"And that fits in with what Gran wrote. A 'gaud' is a flashy trinket."

"If she says so," Tara laughed.

It had to fit. Following Gran's practice, I used a pen to write 'dog days' in neat block letters.

"Lemme see."

I passed her the puzzle. She chuckled through her tears. "Thirty-seven down is 'Fay.' Fay Wray of King Kong."

"Poor Fay." I penned her in, the Queen of Scream, the quintessential damsel in distress.

"That makes 'course activity' 'golf.'"

We hadn't set out to finish the puzzle, but somewhere around the three-quarter mark, it became an imperative. We'd mixed up 'load' for 'lade,' which tripped us up for a bit, but then the rest fell into place. Finished, we faced that awful aimless and empty feeling once again.

Then we cried some more, in a way that felt endless and pointless; I didn't think my sadness would ever lift. The best that I can say about the rest of that night is that I slept well, without a single rippling dream.

The next day, Gran went viral.

Not one, but several news crews had been at the farmer's market the day before, scouting for a view of Amish life in motion along with some footage of the Fellowship protestors circulating through the crowds. But as it turned out, amateur footage from passersby had captured Gran's accident from all angles. They'd had plenty of time to aim their cell phones at the commotion that arose when a mule hauling a load of pumpkins stopped in its tracks and refused to budge. He'd been frightened by the yellow line, a strip taping down cables from news crews that ran straight across the road. And then suddenly, the mule had bolted sideways, straight into Gran's path.

They'd caught it all. The footage ended up on YouTube, where the whole incident could be played over and over again. A number of TV stations picked up the footage too; some of them froze the action right before Gran was hit. Others played the whole damn thing. The public watched, fascinated by this latest development in the story of the Poppycocking, Vampire-Loving Granny.

I didn't watch it. But I saw it, nonetheless. I saw it in the minds of the people all around me, even Jason, who'd ended up haunted by it too.

"Why'd you watch?" I snapped at him.

"I had to know! Jesus, how do you put up with it?"

He'd yelled it at me, but it might have been the greatest display of empathy that had ever come out of his mouth, so much so that I knew an "I-told-you-so" response would have been heartless.

\/ \/

Over the next few days, visitors came through the house one after another. Sid Matt Lancaster dropped some papers off for me to sign. Mike Spencer came by to make funeral arrangements. Reverend Collins said a prayer with me and discussed Gran's service. Maxine helped pick out a dress. She said she'd take it home to iron before passing it along to Mike, even though both of us could see it was already neatly pressed. We both agreed Gran wouldn't want to be buried in any of her jewelry, being much too practical to take anything valuable with her to the grave.

We put Gran to rest on a beautiful fall day, with skies that stretched so incredibly deep and blue, I knew they'd stood on tiptoes especially for her. In a moment of prayer, I felt her clip loose and brush by, soaring into that great open space with her favorite gospel song in her heart. Free as a bird.

Reverend Collins said he'd never seen such a large, wide mix at any other funeral service in Bird-in-Hand. And I believed him. There were curiosity seekers, to be sure, but also plenty of folks I recognized as Gran's friends and acquaintances, Amish neighbors, and my circle too. The whole line of co-workers from the tavern—Sam, Lafayette, Kennedy, Arlene, and Charlsie—made me realize Sam had probably closed down the place to attend. The Bishop from the local Amish district even took part in the service by saying the Lord's prayer.

It made for an odd gathering afterward. My Amish neighbors offered a simple, "I'm sorry for your loss," and then sat calmly, praying to themselves, contemplating, or chatting quietly for a few moments before leaving. Best of all, their minds were untainted by the onslaught of media images my other friends hadn't escaped. Around them, Englishers reminisced about Gran and passed sandwiches, red beet eggs, and cookies.

And then, right in the middle of the puttering, I had a sudden shock that chilled me somewhere in the region of my liver.

Caroline Yokum, Bill's widow, arrived with her husband John.

Of course it wasn't unusual that they'd come, and there was no doubt I'd run into them eventually, but I hadn't thought to prepare myself for it today. And Gran's book of manners surely never said anything about how to greet the widow of your secret vampire friend with whom you've been canoodling. In that regard, I was lucky on two counts: One, I'm good at schooling the expressions on my face, and two, I had the misfortune of already having a reason to look shocked.

Caroline and John held back, greeting a few friends they knew. Meanwhile, I stole a glance or two in their direction. I know, it was petty of me checking out Bill's ex-wife, but now that Bill and I were…whatever we were, I was more than a little curious. Besides, I reasoned to myself, I'd do an extra careful job of steering clear of them mentally.

Except that it was so terribly strange. I'd never look at them the same way again, as simply neighbors renting farmlands from us. The worst of it was _not_ what I'd expected, that withholding my secrets would weigh heavily on me. No, even stranger was how apparent it was that Caroline had moved on—with her husband John, as well as in age, now somewhere around a decade older than Bill. Even that decade had made a difference. It was more than I could ponder at the moment.

"Sookie, are you all right, honey?" Arlene rubbed my back. "Your face is looking a little squnched."

"Yes." I smiled my brightest, and then before I could give it any more consideration, I steeled myself and headed directly toward the Yokums.

"Thank you for coming," I greeted them.

Caroline gave me a little hug. "It's God's will," she was thinking as her hands touched my back. I pulled away as quickly as I could without wrenching to avoid hearing anything else. The sound of her voice in my head faded to fragments of prayer and scripture, mixed with a flickering question of whether our farm would go up for sale. I gave an extra hard tug on my steel plates.

"Your grandmother was kind to us," Caroline noted aloud. "A good neighbor and friend."

"Thank you. I know she thought the same of you." I turned to give John a nod too. "And I know she was glad to see the farm being put to good use." As the man of the house, farming was primarily his responsibility.

He nodded in return and held silent with Caroline, both of them ready and willing to listen; maybe I would have reminisced with them about the time Gran had chased some trespassers out of the blueberry field, or how many times she'd taken the shotgun to scare off some raiding birds, but suddenly, tears were dripping down my cheeks.

John patted my arm. "We wish you much patience."

Caroline, dabbing at her own tears, pulled a tissue from her pocket to hand to me, which I accepted as I turned away with a little wave, too overcome to talk.

Shortly thereafter, they left. Unfortunately, still dazed and distracted by our conversation, I lost my chance to duck away from one of the women from the Methodist church, whose name I couldn't remember for the life of me.

"Sookie!" She approached me with a needle sharp intent. "I didn't know you had so many Amish friends."

And then she outstretched her hand toward an Amish woman named Emma, who'd sold Gran fresh eggs for the past twenty years at least. "Welcome! It's so nice you could join us." Her cheerful tone made her sound more like she was hosting a Tupperware party.

"Would you like some?" She held out a tray of ring bologna slices and longhorn cheese cubes and a jar of mustard to Emma, who politely declined. But this woman wouldn't let up. After she tried to foist a piece of chocolate chip Bundt cake or a cup of coffee on her, she finally said, "I'm praying for your people," with a knowing look. "Such a terrible tragedy for all of you."

"Thank you. Yes, it's very sad," Emma agreed before glancing away.

I expected the Methodist woman would get the hint and let up at this point, but she pursued it. "I simply can't understand how such a horrible thing could happen to good people."

Emma held still.

"It's senseless," the Methodist woman continued, clearly on a roll. "Good Christian people. Makes you wonder what the world's coming to."

I had a very strong urge to smack this woman upside the head for being so stupid, but as a Christian, I wouldn't. I could hear from Emma's thoughts that she was supremely uncomfortable having this conversation, especially in front of me on the day I'd buried my grandmother.

"Here's Jason," I intervened, grabbing his arm as he happened to pass by.

"Jason, I remember when you were only this high." The Methodist woman put her hand down low to demonstrate. "Where's that uncle of yours? Didn't your grandmother have a brother? Barry?"

Emma was smart enough to take her leave at that moment. So was I. I walked away in disgust, making a special note to myself to toss out all the ring bologna and cheese cubes, tray, mustard, and all at the end of the day.

Most of these people here were Gran's friends. The problem was that they'd been tainted by the onslaught of video images of her accident along with all of the associated commentary. Her very best friends had thought all of it was a bunch of—well—poppycock and held steadfast in their opinion of her. But it didn't take much movement into her outer circles to discover that seeds of doubt had been planted. Even if they didn't wholly believe it, plenty of folks were wondering whether she'd invited her trouble by speaking out the way she had. I felt at once exceedingly sad.

By mid-afternoon, I was exhausted. Arlene shooed me outside so that she, Rene, Tara, and Sam could clean up the kitchen. I strolled down the path and ended up at the fallen tree, thinking of Bill. I'd no sooner sat down when Bobbi showed up, darting out of the orchard noisily and pouncing at my feet.

I laughed and reached down for a pat.

"Hello, pretty kitty!"

She stopped for a minute to enjoy a scratch under her chin before marching back and forth in front of me, rubbing against my legs, her tail held high.

Suddenly, another sniffle came over me. Bobbi had been sleeping inside every night, atop the wagon wheel quilt on Gran's pristinely-made bed that otherwise hadn't been disturbed. Now, Bobbi settled for another moment, allowing me to scratch her chin again, and then without warning, braced herself and bounded off, tearing through the underbrush.

I looked up to find Sam purposely walking toward me, which cued me to start crying all over again. I guessed I'd be a weepy old thing for a while.

"I'm sorry, cher," he said, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me close. "She didn't deserve to go like that."

No one did, of course, but I understood what Sam meant. So I cried some more.

"Come on," he said, after my sobs faded to simply hiccups. "Let's go for a walk. Show me the back forty."

I led him on one of the trails winding through the old orchard. Sam took it in with a few deep breaths, his face upturned and relaxed. As we continued walking, he expressed surprise that the area was so big; he hadn't realized how much land we'd had.

"My Grandpa Mitchell always saw this part of his farm as a failure, but to us kids, it was our own playground. All kinds of creatures would come through, too. Deer. Raccoons. Groundhogs. Foxes. Even an occasional bear."

We wandered until we came out at the other end, past the barn and near the garden, which abutted the neighboring cornfield, shorn of its stalks.

"Wow." Sam assessed the sprawling garden, past its prime, though still producing.

"On the day she died, Gran told me we could clear out the tomatoes." Had it really been only a few days ago?

Sam strode forward and grabbed a metal bucket hanging from a corner post and simply began picking; I soon followed suit. What else was there to do on the day that you bury your grandmother? I didn't think about it, but got to work.

There were a few plum tomatoes left, as well as some meaty, round slicing tomatoes, and loads and loads of cherry and grape tomatoes. "These little guys are good for salsa and chutney," I said when Sam exclaimed over how many plants Gran had put in. "She puts up her own salsa, but at this time of the year, she lets the green ones ripen and then makes chutney."

"So what does she do, lay them out on a tray?"

I nodded. "Wrapped in newspaper and stored down cellar." We were talking in the present, as though Gran were still here, but her way of doing things would go on in any case.

"Even these hard, green ones ripen?"

"Sure. But they're never as tasty. That's why using them for chutney is good."

"And what's in the chutney?" Sam's chef's hat was clearly on.

"Ginger, apple cider vinegar, hot pepper, brown sugar, garlic," I trailed off, trying to remember all of the ingredients. "You cook it for a long time until it's thick and gooey. Gran cans it and gives a lot away at Christmas. Lots of her friends want it for their dinner parties." I'd have to look and see how much she'd already put up.

Sam nodded respectfully.

"And her apple-pear butter," I added.

"And what are these?" Sam asked, pointing to small papery bulbs.

"Those are ground cherries." I picked one off the ground and peeled the paper to expose a small yellowish ball about the size of a blueberry. "Just pop it in your mouth."

Sam ate one and made a surprised face. "Kind of pineapple-y."

"A little." I laughed. "You could make a kind of jam with it."

"Or eat them just so," Sam said, picking another off the ground.

I laughed again. "Sometimes you sound like you've lived here forever."

Sam took it in good humor. "I'm a damn Yankee," he said in his most pronounced southern drawl.

We fell silent, then, as we pulled vines. I welcomed the hard physical labor, and Sam seemed like a good enough sport to roll along. I felt him chugging next to me in that odd way that's Sam, but it was clear he wanted to be here to help, and for that I was greatly comforted. After we'd finally separated all of the plants from their stakes, pulled the vines from the ground, and stacked everything in neat piles, we paused to look around.

Sam nodded in satisfaction. And then, glancing up at the broad, flat expanse of the barn, he noted the hex sign, adorned with oak leaves.

"I think it was painted by a local folk artist. Probably commissioned by my grandpa for Gran."

"It's special."

"Yes. I doubt Grandpa Mitchell ever had much opportunity to splurge on Gran."

"Special in other ways too," Sam persisted, with a surprisingly serious tone in his voice.

"Oh, well…" I hesitated, uncertain where he was headed with this conversation. Some folks were especially sensitive about whether the colorful designs were more appropriately called _barn art _or _hex signs. _"I think the oak leaf is for good health and a long life," I hedged. "And I guess it worked out well enough for Gran." The tears came again.

"Aw, cher," Sam pulled me close to him. I sensed his internal struggle, probably searching for something to say. After my long day, I couldn't stand a platitude, however well-intended, so I pulled away.

On that somewhat awkward note, Sam moved as if to go, lifting the flannel shirt he'd removed earlier from the corner post and tossing it over his shoulder. Inside, I scrambled, shoring up my reserves for the transition to the night ahead of me, facing an empty farmhouse.

"I need to get to the tavern," Sam said. "You okay here by yourself?" The rest of the clean-up crew had trickled out during our walk and gardening chores.

"Of course. I'll just…" I held up the pails of tomatoes.

He nodded. "You take as much time as you need, but whenever you're ready to start work again, I'll fit you in."

"I appreciate it."

"And don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

By now we were near the path leading up the bank to Sam's truck. He waited for me to enter the farmhouse and flick the lights before he left.

Once inside, I decided not to pause. I dug out all the old newspapers for recycling I could find and wrapped the tomatoes loosely in small pouches for storing on trays. I left a couple of the larger slicing ones that were fairly close to ripening upstairs, but stored the rest down cellar atop a large workshop table Grandpa Mitchell had used for his winter carpentry work. Then I washed out the pails, and remembering the state of the old smokehouse, stowed them neatly in the front porch area. I shook out the rag rug too, while I was at it. And when all of that was finished, the house was finally and ultimately quiet.

I didn't like it.

For as much as the mental chatter of visitors had worn me down, being alone in the quiet was equally uncomfortable. I called for Bobbi, but she didn't come running; Sam seemed to have spooked her. So without giving it any other consideration, I relied on an old standby: I took a thorough and proper shower, not skimping on any lathering, scrubbing, shaving, buffing, or moisturizing.

Afterward, I slipped into my most worn and comfortable nightgown, covered up on the sofa with an afghan, flicked on the TV to watch a movie, and simply let the images wash over me, replacing everything else I'd seen and heard, as I combed through tangled hair.

Focused as I was on the TV, I almost missed Bill's flickering flashlight at the window. I waved for him to go around and let himself in, which made me tear up that he _could_, now that Gran was gone. He was next to me on the sofa in an instant, a grim expression on his face. Clearly, he'd heard.

"It was awful," I choked out as I started crying for the thousandth time. Next to me on the sofa, Bill faced me without averting his gaze, while all around us, the sinuous roll and curl of the farmlands prodded and nudged. His red-rimmed eyes looked close to spilling too. I'd never seen a vampire cry—didn't even know they physically could—but having him here with me, expressing something so human, reminded me of the way he and Gran had once been, chatting it up during a mid-day break or sharing something from their gardens, as good neighbors do. These lands had been home to Bill's ancestors, come and gone for hundreds of years. Honestly, I thought that what was just as sad for Bill at this moment wasn't that Gran was _gone_, but that _he_ was still _here_. Here _forever,_ that is, but not really _here._

"May I," I asked, moving as if to lean against him. He shifted and scooted as he arranged himself at the end of the sofa, feet propped up on the hassock, allowing me to extend my legs and rest my head on his lap as he folded the afghan over me. His fingers worked through my still damp hair, but not before his forefinger darted down to swipe a tear from my cheek. If I wasn't mistaken from the sounds and movements, he'd popped it in his mouth in the same manner he would lick frosting from a cake. "Mmm," he'd confirmed quietly, shuddering. I was considering how odd his action was when the press of my cheek against his thigh and the stroke of his fingers in my hair, set to the tune of his silence—that divine treat—reminded me I wasn't exactly Norma Normal myself. But I let that thought rest for the time being, thoroughly content to simply be with him. It was the first occasion in days that I found myself in an emptied out space, shaken free of intrusions, where I could stretch my body and let my mind roam _separate_ from, but _in_ someone else's company. I shifted on the sofa, burrowing into a comfortable spot. Bill's fingers stopped for a moment, then resumed stroking gently and rhythmically.

Not much time passed before a new need began to take over.

I shifted, allowing his fingers to trail slightly against my breast.

"I want to feel good with you," I prodded, reminded of all of the bodiless hurt and watery numbness—my own and others'—that had slopped over me in the past few days. Maybe if I didn't feel something solid and pleasurable in my own skin, I would simply wash away, melt into nothingness. Turning my head on his lap, I looked straight into his dark eyes and took one of his hands, still twining in my hair, and pressed it firmly against my breast.

"You're beautiful," he said in his low, gravelly voice that sent thrilling frissons from my head to my toes. The mood between us snapped to, immediately enlivened by new possibilities. With seemingly no effort, he stood as he did an honest-to-goodness scoop, one that had me draped in his arms in a pose that might grace the cover of a romance novel. _Why not?_ I thought, encouraged by the hard and urgent press of his mouth against mine. I had the shapely legs, full bosom, and long, flowing hair to pull it off, and I could certainly match his energy. I kissed him back with all the passion I'd stored in my twenty-six years of lonely waiting.

"There," I pointed toward my bedroom. He set me down on the edge of the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt himself, but emboldened, I brushed aside his hands and did the work for him, stopping at every step to slip my hand against the bare skin of his trim, firm body. With his shirt finally slung open, I slipped it off his shoulders. Now wasn't the time to back down; standing up to him and leaning toward his chest, I took first one nipple, then the other in my mouth, slowly swirling my tongue. If he didn't like that, I figured, he might get the point that I would.

But he moaned in a way that sounded an awful lot like pleasure, which brought me my own kind of happiness. He held my face in his hands to give me a very long, slow kiss, deep with intention, one that had me moaning too.

He stepped back and looked at me with some expectation; I realized that of course I'd need to shed some clothes too.

"It's a bit chilly," I laughed, nervousness finally nipping at me, as I reached to pull back the covers and climb onto the bed. In the same time, he fully stripped in a flash—excuse me—and was standing _very_ proudly before me.

"Oh, my," I said, openly admiring his body, not even trying to put on any cool and sophisticated bedroom airs. He slipped in beside me, gliding a hand up my thigh, pushing my nightgown over my hip. I gasped at the freshness of his touch, of his silent, cool hand stroking over new skin. With some struggle, and for sure without much grace, I yanked my nightgown off and tossed it to the floor. Bill approved with a lustful glance before leaning in to skim kisses across my breasts. That was a good new one too; tonight was proving to be chock-full of first-time fun. He pulled me against him, the full length of our flesh pressed together. I felt _all_ of him.

When his finger slipped inside my panties, yet another jolt shivered through me.

"Sookie?" Bill half growled.

I lifted my hips to tug my last stitch of clothing off. Bill helped discard them.

"Now?" he asked.

"Yes!" I maneuvered beneath him in what seemed like the right position and reached to help guide him. He stroked against me a few times, started to push in, but stopped immediately, when I winced.

"No, don't stop!"

"Sweetheart." Bill supported his weight above me on his shoulders.

"No," I insisted, refusing to be coddled. "Don't stop!" I said again resolutely, my feet braced against the bed. I grasped his hips and tugged. With no further encouragement, he pushed into me. Before I lost my nerve to the sting, I moved beneath him, faltering as I shifted awkwardly, struggling to gain a rhythm. I cried out, frustrated that if I didn't feel something good—and soon—I might implode on the spot.

"Shhh," Bill whispered in my ear. He leaned to one side and trailed a finger from my neck down my breast and belly to the spot between my legs, stroking softly but deftly and not letting up until my breathing caught on. Only then did he hitch my leg and start to thrust again, his panting matching mine, unnecessary I knew, but comforting and erotic at once. Soon, I was filling with the anticipation of something far greater to come. Above me, Bill's motions, once deliberate, but fluid, turned more driven and tense. When a groan escaped from my lips, he shifted his mouth to my neck.

"May I?" he asked.

"Will it hurt?"

"Not the way I'll do it," he rumbled, the low register of his voice nudging the quivery pool welling within me. It was the last bit I needed.

"Oh, now!" I cried out, my very own orgasm starting to spill. At this, Bill's fangs sank into my neck. My pleasure tipped over in a long, steady rush that would have swept me straight off the bed had I not been thoroughly attached to Bill. He continued to draw from my neck as he had his own happy moment. And then, releasing my neck, he pulled me to my side to lie in his arms.

"That was…" I faltered.

"Yes, that was," Bill said, his tone languid and smooth.

"If I had known what I'd been missing…"

"You didn't tell me."

I shrugged. I'd wanted my first time to be normal, not marked by any special fanfare. And though the decision to have sex had been made mutually, to be sure, my virginity had been my own business; now, though, I didn't want it imbued with anyone else's meaning and significance.

"I simply wanted to feel good—normal—in my own skin."

"Oh," Bill murmured against my neck. "I think we accomplished that."

I shifted, sorry to feel some soreness setting in, _down_ _there_ and at my neck.

"Will it always be like that?"

"Even better."

"No, I mean the biting."

"That's what makes it complete," Bill explained, sounding somewhat clinical about it. "Was it not enjoyable for you too?"

"Oh, yes," I answered, nodding vigorously. "Though now I'm a bit sore."

"I can heal you," he said, biting his finger and touching his blood to my neck. "It would be a wise thing, too, in order to keep us a secret."

"And down there too?" I asked, hopefully.

He smiled and moved between my legs, touching first with his fingers, and then surprising me with his mouth. Within moments, the soreness lifted and then some.

"Des is esse es Allerbescht," he said, his cool cheek pressed against my inner thigh.

_This is the best of all? _I couldn't wait to find out.


	18. Finding My Stride

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard & talented work.**  
><strong>

**(Edit) A/N:** Common in Pennsylvania German folk art, the _distelfink _is a stylized rendering of the goldfinch. For a good example, see the image accompanying this story.

* * *

><p><strong>Finding My Stride<strong>

Arlene stopped by on the day after Gran's funeral, full of lighthearted, but solid chatter that settled in all the empty spaces of the farmhouse. She followed me unabashedly into Gran's bedroom and didn't hesitate to tug on the top drawer when I pointed her in the direction of her dresser.

"Oh, well, this one's easy!" she noted, immediately scooping up piles of Gran's brassieres_, _girdles, slips, underwear, and pantyhose. Arms laden, she moved toward the large trash barrel I'd brought inside.

"Wait!" I stopped her, reaching. Her panic-stricken expression said, "You gotta be kidding me."

I tugged at stretchy bits of flesh-colored nylon worming in her arms. "I'll save the old hose for Maxine," I explained. "They use them for tying up tomatoes."

Her face collapsed with relief. "Oh, whew! For a moment, I was worried we might be at this all day, saving every blessed thing," she prattled. "Can you imagine? Saving underwear? But all right. Pantyhose, if you say so! I'm no gardener." She shook her head and grabbed for a box that she marked _Maxine_ with a Sharpie. Without pausing, she bustled to the dresser for the next drawer, business as usual.

After that halting start, the rest of the morning went off without a hitch. I didn't think; with Arlene next to me, blithely chattering, I simply put myself in motion, snapping the frame of my body and mind into something light and sturdy, like Gran. These were just things, not Gran. They wouldn't get the best of me or weigh me down. The large bulk of items that passed my hands got tossed or set aside for friends or charity. I felt sure it was what Gran would have wanted.

"Look at this!" Arlene exclaimed, pulling my attention away from the stacks of old notecards I was largely tossing. She was on her knees, tackling Gran's closet, and had pulled out the large round tin I hadn't seen in years. Buttons. More buttons than ever before. Impulsively, her hands plunged in, which made me smile and tear up at once.

"It's irresistible, isn't it?" I scooted toward her. Her fingers were trickling buttons. So many buttons.

"What do we do with this?" She gave the hefty tin a shake, swirling and shifting buttons like cake batter. _Bake me a banana cake, Sookie._

It was the first thing I'd come across today that I really didn't want to let go, though I had no practical use for it. "Let's store it on top of the dresser until we have a better sense of things."

Maybe the tightness in my voice made her pause and cast a glance my way. "Aw, sweetie. You've had enough for now. Let's stop for lunch."

She'd packed cream sodas and Lebanon bologna sandwiches for us.

"Coby and Lisa complain every time I fix these sandwiches, but I tell you, I run out of lunchbox ideas."

As the hostess of the house, I opened some barbecue chips the funeral crowd hadn't touched, shook some into a bowl, and then got out two plates, glasses, and some napkins. Maybe it wasn't much, but Gran would have been scandalized if we'd eaten in her home off plastic sandwich wrap and straight out of an open chip bag.

Arlene immediately reached for a handful of chips. "I don't know what else they expect. Mornings are such a rush. And food is so expensive. My grocery bills…" She trailed off.

I nodded, no stranger to living in a household with a stretched budget. Gran used to fry the bologna with cheese, just to switch it up a bit. We'd eaten our share of fried egg sandwiches too. "These taste good," I assured her. "Thank you."

"Oh, hey," she bumped her forehead. "Listen to me complaining. It's no trouble. I thought maybe you'd want a break from funeral casseroles." She pointed at the folder I'd set aside. "Whatcha got there?"

"These are old calendar photographs Gran used to collect. See how she'd cut them?"

I held one up, depicting a craggy southwestern landscape, with nothing but an intensely blue sky contrasting its myriad earthy shades of brown. The edge was neat and square, trimmed with a ruler and a utility knife.

"Hmm," Arlene mused. "People sure do get in habits, don't they?"

"Yes," I agreed, all the while noting the intent care Gran had taken with her photographs. "Gran always said, 'Sookie, not everywhere is like here.'"

Arlene rolled her eyes. "That's for sure."

I held up two others: a rain forest in Costa Rica and a brilliantly striped tulip field in Holland. I'd chosen them somewhat randomly, tossing the rest, though I'd ensured they were landscapes strikingly different from the farmlands of Lancaster County.

"Ooh, pretty. Whatcha gonna do with 'em?"

I shrugged. "Not sure yet."

"There's that box of frames we emptied," she suggested.

We wrapped up lunch and then returned to the bedroom to tackle Gran's cedar chest. By late afternoon, we started hauling discards out to the burn pile and loading the Goodwill items into Arlene's trunk.

"Would you like a cup of tea before you go?"

"No, I best get home before my kids wear out my neighbor's welcome. Plus I'm sure they haven't started on their homework yet." She picked up the last bag of clothes for donation and leaned in for a hug.

"Thanks again for everything."

She waved her free hand at me. "Pfft. After all those times you cleaned my trailer? Now, don't be a stranger. Come have dinner with Rene and me and the kids one night."

I nodded. "Here," I said, tucking a tissue-wrapped package into her purse. "It's that Hummel figurine."

"Ohh!" she gushed, thanking me. Earlier she'd admired it, one of Gran's few knickknacks, a little girl petting a calf. "It's too precious." Shaking her head, she turned to go. "They grow up so fast."

With one last wave, she was gone.

After Arlene's visit, the house was quiet—during daylight hours anyway—except for a few phone calls, including some inquiries from the press, which I declined. Otherwise, I was home alone with a cat that seemed to prefer my dead grandmother to me. She allowed for a brief pat here and there, so long as I fed her and granted her easy access to a cozy napping spot, her favorite being Gran's quilt. She never once joined me in my bedroom, though nighttime found me otherwise occupied with my vampire.

I spent a full afternoon working on the smokehouse, which turned out to be a much bigger job than I'd anticipated, involving shoveling and hauling walnuts, separating scrap metal from useable tools, and salvaging whatever wood Jason might still be able to use for the repairs. I had to slow down, too, after I unearthed an interesting wood shape: a smooth carving—walnut, I believed—crafted into the stylized form of a _distelfink_. I hadn't known there'd been any carvers in the family. But in fact, I dug up a few other pieces, the rest of them rough shapes of birds familiar in these parts—a pheasant, a ruffed grouse, a barn swallow, and a hawk. I kept them all, lined up on my dresser, though none had the same strangely comforting appeal as the distelfink, which I took to carrying in my pocket. I made a mental note to myself to ask Jason about them.

One day, I boxed up a few items I'd saved for Maxine, including the old pantyhose, some photographs, and a pillow embroidered with flowers and the saying, "Friends are the flowers in the garden of life," and drove to her house.

Maxine nearly knocked me out flat.

"Come in! Come in for a cup of tea!" she encouraged as soon as she saw me, tugging gently on my elbow. The minute her hand touched, her thoughts came in with such astonishing clarity, I recoiled at the sensation of her brain being imposed on top of mine, like having something shoved down my throat. _Poor dear must be so lonesome without Adele there…that farmhouse is so isolated...I wonder if Jason's been helping…will she know how to prune the long canes on the James Galway…_

She stopped suddenly and stared at me. I must have pushed the box into her arms, and on top of that, I'd made a mistake I hadn't done in years.

I'd answered her thoughts.

"Gran never let me touch her prize roses. Only the invasive ones in the pasture," I'd said, shaking my head. I could hear my own voice echoing inside Maxine.

"W-well," she stammered, "it's not too hard. I can come by and…show you. Won't take long."

I blinked away tears, realizing that in just the few short days since I'd seen Arlene, I'd gotten extremely out-of-practice coping with my disability.

_Stupid,_ I thought to myself. _Stupid, stupid stupid._

My famous elastic smile stretched into place, right at home where it belonged. I wasn't about to fall apart in front of Maxine; that much I owed Gran. Forging ahead with all the grace I could muster, I replied, "That would be wonderful, Maxine. It would be a shame to let them go."

"Of course, dear." She shifted the box in her arms. "Did you want that cup of tea?" _How is she going to manage…I must make an effort to stop by…maybe I can get Hoyt to encourage Jason to help out more…_

"No, thank you," I said through my grin, which had grown at least partially genuine, happy to not be _kotsing_ on her front step. "I need to run." I needed to go on at least one other errand. Still feeling unsteady, I stepped back to avoid a full frontal hug before turning toward my car.

"I'll call you, dear." _Oh, look at this pillow…I remember picking up this embroidery kit at that old stitchery shop over there in Intercourse…boy, haven't things changed along that stretch…_

I ducked inside my car and took a few deep breaths, willing calm to settle over me. Inside my pocket, the smooth wood of the distelfink grew warm in my hands. I was seriously out-of-practice blocking my telepathy, and I'd had no clue how quickly this could happen…all alone out there in the farmhouse during the day, without Gran puttering next to me, getting wrapped up in house projects, not to mention a nighttime visitor…isolated with him from the rest of the world and all of their viral images of Gran's death. I'd fallen into a pattern without even realizing it. I stopped myself. If this could happen quickly, I could fix it just as quickly. And I'd better, too, if I wanted to keep up with my bills.

Immediately, I called Sam at the tavern.

"Virginville," he answered, apparently too distracted to read his caller ID. I pictured him at his desk, raking his hands through his messy hair, grumbling about paperwork or quarterly taxes, or inventory, or whatever else took him away from behind the bar.

"Sam, it's Sookie."

"Hey, cher." His voice softened in a way I couldn't pay attention to at that moment. I meant business. I cut to the chase.

"May I come back to work?"

"Hold on there a minute." I could hear him rifling through papers, probably checking the schedule. "How soon you want to start? 'Cuz I could use you tomorrow lunch."

"Perfect. I'll be there. 10:00."

"Yep. You, uh…"

I cut him off in an effort to avoid the awkwardness. "I'm ready, Sam. I'll see you then. Thank you."

We said brief good-byes.

Already I was feeling better. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, pondering what else I might do between now and tomorrow. If I was going to make it through a full shift at the tavern, I'd need more practice. I put the car in drive and headed for the first place that came to mind.

Wal-Mart.

I hadn't been here since I'd run into Marcia Albanese on the day Gran had died. Neighbors and friends had dropped off so much food, I'd needed to freeze it in portions so it wouldn't go to waste. But there was always something I needed at Wal-Mart.

"Welcome to Wal-Mart," the blue-vested employee said.

"Thank you." I smiled, thinking it was a pity many Wal-Marts were starting to station the greeters elsewhere in the store to help direct people. I liked to be greeted; I happily accepted a smiley face sticker from him and pasted it on the front of my t-shirt. _There_.

Plowing into Wal-Mart, I was immediately swarmed by the buzz of many minds. _Gran's honor,_ I reminded myself sternly as I hefted the steel plates in my head.

With no particular goal —other than not going crazy—I hit upon the first good prospect of the day: Cherry Icees. I liked them and maybe the cold would help keep me alert. I would be extra careful not to spill it; this alone was a vote of confidence in myself.

After filling a large cup, I grabbed a cart with a holder and decided to pick up some items for dinner. Cooking for me—not reheating leftover casseroles in the microwave—would give me another purpose. So I selected a two-pack of pork chops, one for now and one for later, to which I added two baking potatoes, a package of heat-and-serve dinner rolls, a can of green beans, and a can of cream of mushroom soup.

Along the way, I accidentally overheard a mom fretting over her husband's late work shift as she tried herding her three small children through the produce section. But during my conversation with the meat man, I'd heard barely a whisper from him. When someone behind me recognized me as the "Waitress from Virginville," I didn't even turn to respond. And I kept my giggles to myself when I recognized the grumbling inner voice of Marge Barker, the woman who always had a complaint brewing. I felt extra good about being able to tune her out. Then I grabbed a carton of milk, chiding myself when I got mopey about needing only half a gallon.

"It's just like riding a bicycle," I reassured myself, drawing on Icee. As a treat, I wandered over to the underwear section and felt a happy jolt when I realized I could buy a matching bra-and-panty set for someone else to appreciate. I chose a pretty light blue color that would look nice with my blonde hair, even after my tan had faded. And then on a whim—and to give myself a bit more practice blocking—I stopped by the clearance aisle, where I was thrilled to find a pair of throw rugs in colors that would match the quilt Sarah was making. There was a smudge of dirt on one corner, but nothing that I wouldn't be able to remove with some attention.

This wasn't an impulse buy, I reassured myself. This was…well, I guessed it was a pick-me-up, a little retail therapy, which I thought was okay given the circumstances. And then I had a sudden inspiration that now that Gran's room was all cleaned out of her belongings, I could move into it and fix it up to be my own. I wouldn't have to think of her old room as a shrine or a glorified kitty hotel; it would be my bedroom instead. It had its own bathroom too, which would be nice for practical purposes. With that goal in mind, I headed to the draperies section and chose two pairs of simple cream-colored eyelet curtains to replace the heavy tweed ones she'd had forever.

The rest of my day went well, buoyed by my fun plans. My first order of business was transferring all of my belongings to Gran's room. I removed the wagon wheel quilt, replacing it with a simple blanket, and spread it on my old bed for Bobbi. After tossing the dark tweed curtains, I gave the floor a quick vacuum and laid down the freshly-laundered rugs. Then I hung Gran's old calendar prints and as a final thought, dug out a huge old glass jar in the basement, filled it with buttons, and set it atop the dresser. By the time Bill arrived that night and I'd fully settled in, I was in fine spirits, finer than I'd felt in a week.

"You are looking well." He took me in his arms with a familiarity that warmed and comforted me.

"I am," I readily agreed, settling into the nook of his shoulder, enrapt by the gentle press of every single one of his fingers across my back...wandering ever lower. No matter how many times he touched, he'd never lose this newness.

"Close your eyes," I directed, invigorated. "I have a surprise."

His smile was slightly pursed, but he obliged willingly enough, following as I started to guide him across the kitchen. I realized as I watched his feet treading nimbly that with his vampire sense, even with his eyes closed he'd know his position in the kitchen with every step.

"Can you hover?" I asked, mostly because I was curious to see him do it again.

He gamely levitated a few inches off the ground. I resisted the urge to spin him a few times around, like a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, but couldn't help but laugh as he glided along with me, like a helium-filled balloon. Yes, some things would never grow old.

And then suddenly I was hovering with him in his arms, just inside the doorway of Gran's room. I met his watchful expression with a genuine grin.

"You guessed!"

"I noticed your Gran's old curtains out in the barrel for the burn pile." He gave me a gentle squeeze. "You were not bothered by _my_ surprise."

"Nope. I like the unexpected."

And then in another snap, I was on top of the bed, in Bill's arms, enjoying his clever kisses. I stretched beside him and sighed with contented anticipation, knowing whatever tonight would bring was sure to be good.

But Bill pulled back, abruptly. "Tell me about your day."

He'd seemed to enjoy hearing about the mundane details of my life, but today had started with Maxine; I confided in him that I'd had a scare.

He gripped my arm. "What is this?" he asked, alarm in his voice.

"No," I reassured him, tugging my arm out of his grasp and shaking it loose. "Nothing like that. A different kind of scare. With my telepathy." I explained to him how I'd been nearly bowled over by Maxine's thoughts.

Bill looked pensive in the same way he might mull over his spring planting schedule, which was to say he gave it significant attention. "This Maxine woman…is she normally what you would call a loud broadcaster?"

"No. I'd say she's about average."

"But today she tuned in extra loud and clear."

I nodded emphatically. "I was out of practice. I hadn't realized how much I'd blocked Gran, and without her around…" Tears welled up as I gestured. "I slipped." That was surely the understatement of the year; I'd done the telepathic equivalent of letting my gut hang out.

He pulled me close, against the length of his body. "There must be ways to control it better," he said quietly, still with his thoughtful tone.

I allowed myself one extra shudder, remembering how Maxine's thoughts had flooded the nooks and crannies of my brain. "It's all right. I'm back on track." Of all the things that had happened today, I'd remember the successes most. I'd fallen, but more importantly, I'd been able to get up quickly and dust off.

Suddenly re-energized and bolstered, I shimmied out of my jeans, tugged my shirt off, and sat up to straddle Bill. If he minded my weight, he didn't let on, bringing his hands up to play with the loose curls falling over my shoulders as I unbuttoned his shirt. He met my eyes, but not until he'd very deliberately twined his fingers in my hair and swept it aside, lock by lock to expose bare skin.

I shifted, pushing against him, his arousal apparent between my legs.

"Can we make this work?" I asked hopefully.

"Oh, yes," he assured me.

As it turned out, he was right.

\/ \/

I went to work fully eager to return to my routine. I found Sam in his office, studying a beer distributor ad. He bolted out of his seat when I rapped on the door frame and bounded around his desk, nearly knocking down a box full of file folders along the way. "Welcome back!" he said with genuine enthusiasm—which I appreciated—though as he neared me, he abruptly faltered. What had looked at first like the start of a great big bear hug fizzled to a limp pat. His arms hung by his side awkwardly before he jammed them in his front jeans pockets. "It's good to have you back," he said in a choked voice, swallowing a whole lot of emotion.

The rest of the day went similarly, with many awkward moments that broke through my best blocking efforts. That's not to say I didn't do a good job—I did, glad to be back in the game, so to speak—but Gran and all the other Amish country hubbub was rattling around in a lot of minds like a pocketful of loose change in a dryer drum. Fortunately, there were a few people who adored my grandmother and wouldn't for the life of them change their sentiments about her no matter what the media reported. But there were also plenty of folks who thought my gran had spoken foolishly, had stuck her neck out in a way that had somehow brought her own demise. I didn't understand it, really. Some people—clearly influenced by the FotS propaganda—took a real religious tact, thinking it was the wrath of God himself punishing one of the Devil's sympathizers. Others wondered more simply whether there was something to that notion that trouble begets trouble, and Adele had gotten herself into a bad mix.

"We were just going out for lunch and fancy cabbages!" I wanted to shout to everyone. "Having a normal girls' day out!" Gran had been nothing other than unlucky, at the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have happened to any of them, something no one, not even Gran's friends, wanted to face squarely. Also, it didn't escape my notice that the press had chomped down on whatever tidbit Amish country had to offer—still was—and maybe if they hadn't reacted so voraciously, Gran would still be alive today. After all, it had been _their_ cables that had spooked the mule and caused the accident.

But fixing on that reasoning would serve little purpose other than to push me yet another step closer to crazy. And while I didn't think I had it in my heart to forgive as boldly and bluntly as the Amish did, I _could_ keep my mind moving forward and active in a positive direction.

No, of course Gran hadn't _deserved_ to die. I held onto that belief dearly.

\/ \/

Over the next two weeks, I settled into a routine, with Sam acting strangely toward me; annoyed, I did my best to avoid him.

Bill and I established our own routine too. Whether I worked the early or the late shift, he showed up at my house afterward, giving me enough time to shower and wash away the odors of the tavern. We watched movies and played games and spent hours in each other's arms. I tried explaining to Bill how much I treasured being able to get caught up in the flow of being with him, without the distracting effort I normally had to put into it. It was so damn freeing, words couldn't fully describe it. I didn't mind showing him in the bedroom. He showed me a few things too. We might not have put many limits on our activities except that eventually I started to suspect that my sluggishness wasn't simply a result of fewer sleeping hours, after which we came to an agreement to take every third night off. At least from biting.

Of course there was no denying that the world around us was moving along. Liam, Malcolm, and Diane were still out there stirring up trouble, most recently getting captured on camera gamboling about the family burial plot of one of the farmhouse shooting victims. Though Bill thought he'd sufficiently thrown them off by feeding them some information on his previous whereabouts, we remained alert for their presence around the farmhouse. There was no telling when they'd get bored with their current adventures and return their attentions to us.

Meanwhile, the FotS seemed to be only gaining in strength. Their demonstrations were permanent fixtures in various spots around Amish country, including a small park across the street from the ToysRUs Shopping Plaza, immediately opposite Fangtasia. Fed by the well-publicized antics of Liam, Malcolm, and Diane, their anti-vampire commentary made up a large chunk of daily news and was gathering steam with the general public. No vampire was safe from unwanted attention, but Eric, whose fangs had been seemingly bared at an Amish woman, had garnered some harsh scrutiny of his businesses: a law office and a tattoo parlor, in addition to his nightclub.

"Eric has requested your help," Bill said to me as soon as I returned home from work one night, before I had even finished untying my sneakers.

"Good evening to you, too." I tilted my cheek in his direction.

He planted a perfunctory kiss on my cheek. I entered the kitchen and tugged on him to join me on the daybed. He hesitated before sinking down next to me and stroking my back. "He's waiting for you."

Suddenly it dawned on me what Bill was saying. "What? Now? He's waiting now?"

He nodded. "He'll be expecting you soon."


	19. The Telepath of Bird-in-Hand

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard & talented work.

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><p><strong>The Telepath of Bird-in-Hand<strong>

"I have to go to Intercourse tonight?" Suddenly I was tired, the long train of my day dragging behind me, weighed down by the extra debris it had just snagged.

"No, not Intercourse. He's waiting for you at the old house."

_The old house _was what Bill had come to refer to his abandoned property downhill from my home. I assumed he went to rest there most days, though I'd never specifically asked him that question once I understood what a personal matter it was. He and I had gone there only that one time, before Gran had died, preferring the comforts of my home.

"What's he waiting for?" There seemed to be a whole lot of blanks in need of filling.

"He has a…gentleman he wants you to read."

I paused for a moment, and when Bill didn't go on, I gave him another prompt. "And he wants me to find out…"

"…whether his intentions are honorable. He is a photographer Eric is considering employing to help counter the anti-vampire spin."

"Hmmph," I muttered, knowing all too well how much a story could be spun. The memory of my own gran was _still_ being tainted. Though I'd been avoiding my computer, I'd "heard" with my disability that someone had posted a vampires-in-Amish country video, complete with rap lyrics and Gran's shrill "Ach! It's poppycock!"

"I don't know, Bill," I finally answered, thinking about how imperfectly my telepathy had worked during my trip to Fangtasia.

"You need to go."

"I get it," I said, irritated. "I hate all the lies being passed around. But you saw what happened last time."

"Eric was quite pleased."

I threw my hands up. "Exactly! If that's the kind of performance Eric appreciates, I don't want any part of it."

Bill leaned forward on the daybed, resting his forearms on his thighs and clasping his hands together. I couldn't see his face, turned down to his feet. "You _have_ to go."

Suddenly, I understood what he was saying. I leapt up to face him squarely. "He can't _make_ me go!"

Bill didn't immediately respond, which was itself the answer.

I let out a cry of frustration. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Sookie, as the _sheriff_ of Intercourse and the surrounding area, he can compel me to bring you to him. And especially since he has granted me special permission to be in his area, I have little power to resist him."

He'd just said a whole lot.

"Oy." I plopped down next to him to mull it over. I could feel the tension in his body, in his stiffened posture. "Bill," I coaxed, stroking his thigh, which felt as solid and unyielding as a tree trunk. It took all my energy to keep my hand where it was; we were in a daunting spot, but I wasn't ready to give in yet. There had to be a way. Something we could do to give us some leverage, even if only a little. I couldn't stand thinking we were compelled to do anything simply because Eric said so.

"Okay," I said after giving it some more thought. "It'll help you, too." I stood and gave him a tug. "Let's go. We can do this."

Bill remained seated. "Don't you think you should…change first?" He raised a brow at me.

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" I turned and stomped off to my bedroom. Truthfully, a quick shower would feel good, and I realized with annoyance that Bill was right—I couldn't very well show up to read this man wearing a Virginville shirt and smelling like Schnitz un Gnepp. The problem was I didn't know what to wear. It wasn't exactly a suit-and-briefcase kind of job.

My answer was laid out for me on the bed after I finished my shower; Bill had selected a pair of slim jeans along with a form-fitting knit top with lace trim. I vetoed the heels in favor of flats, more sensible shoes for traipsing through the woods at night. And then after rummaging through my Gran's old jewelry box, I added a simple silver chain and a matching pair of earrings. With an extra sweep of my hair, I was ready to go.

Bill nodded in approval and offered me his elbow as we began our trip downhill. We moved quickly, chatting quietly as we kept an eye out for the Blue Ball trio. At the front door, the blonde vampire named Pam met us. "I like what you've done to the place," she said to Bill.

I took a step forward, hesitated, sidled toward the edge of the doorframe, and then reached up to tug on my ponytail. It was that strange feeling tripping me up again, like I needed a little more oomph to cross the threshold. Maybe it was just a bad case of the jitters. I smiled nervously at Pam; she cocked her head with a bemused expression on her face. "Is everything all right?"

"Sure," I said stoutly, and steeling myself, shoved through. Only I pushed too hard, caught my toe on a loose tile, and practically flew into the foyer. Eric was waiting there, his arms darting out to stop my body from hurtling into the staircase.

"I'm good, thank you," I said, tugging my shirt down.

"I have no doubt."

I moved out of his grasp with a little shake, both inside and out. Somehow, I'd forgotten exactly how intimidating Eric was, but now, in person, in the setting of a dark and dilapidated farmhouse, it was more than apparent. Sure he was tall. And muscular. And gulp-ably handsome, with impressive blond hair any man or woman would envy. A fine dancer too, as I recalled. But he also practically vibrated with age, having been a vampire for _centuries. _Standing so near to him, staring down that unfathomable length of time in wonder…well, it brought goose bumps to my skin.

Bill drew me near to him. "Eric, I've told Sookie that you have someone for her to read, a photographer you're considering hiring."

"That's right," I spoke up, before I lost my nerve. "And I'd like you to know that I'm _willing_ to help."

Bill shifted his weight. "What Sookie means to say is…"

Eric cut him off. "You're _willing_," he said stiffly, his eyes narrowed and focused on mine. He'd crossed his arms over his chest and was standing with his legs spread.

"Yes. The way I see it, you and I have some things in common, some things we both despise."

His gaze was icy blue, implacable. I ignored it and forged on.

"I'm sure you've seen my gran in the news." I had to believe Eric had done his homework, but I clarified anyway. "You know, the woman they're calling the Poppycock Granny?"

I had no doubt Eric cared nothing for my gran. But I had a sudden, cold realization that if she were alive tonight, he could easily threaten to hurt her to force me to do exactly what he wanted. For that matter, with Jason still alive…

I quickly continued. "I thought what she said was right. There's no evidence vampires had any hand in what Jim Collins did. It was just a bunch of drummed-up allegations by the FotS meant to bring bad publicity to vampires. And now the story's grown far beyond the start."

Eric looked like he might spit. "A _human_ shot those Amish. There is no disputing it."

I'd just said as much. "Yes, and the FotS got the attention they were looking for. Y'all don't deserve this bad press."

Eric smirked. "Y'all?"

"That's right." As I'd learned from Sam, sometimes it was a handy word, and quite fitting in this case, especially now that Liam, Malcolm, and Diane were out there stirring up trouble.

"Aren't you a southern belle," he prodded.

"More like a Damn Yankee," I answered.

Eric seemed to consider before he laughed. I didn't think I was home free yet; he could have easily grabbed me in a vice grip and said, "You'll do what I say." But instead, something ordinary happened: his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at it briefly, and tossed it to Pam. "Tell them for the last time, 'I'm _not interested_.'"

She shrugged and walked out of the room before answering the call.

When Eric returned his attention to me, I made my final pitch. "I'm willing to do what I can to help you turn the tide." It was a gamble, but I had to hope that Eric would understand it was much better to enlist my help willingly. "And by that I mean tonight as well as any other way I can help make sure you get a fair shake in the press."

It was as much as anyone deserved.

Of course what I really wanted to say was that it was much easier to act on their behalf when no one got hurt. But extracting that kind of assurance from him would mean nothing, as I'd already witnessed from Camo Girl's example. I had to hope, though, that using my telepathy would be a much more peaceful means of discovering whatever information would be helpful.

He hadn't moved. I met his eyes steadily, folded my own arms over my chest, which was right where his eyes deliberately roved to for a few lengthy moments. And then I sensed the power tweaks, flowing over me much more strongly than what Bill had tried, but ineffective nonetheless. I thought it would be bad news to call him out—tell him he couldn't glamour me—in front of Bill and Pam, who'd returned to the room.

A long silence stretched between us. I felt myself breaking out into a cold sweat, wondering whether I was crazy indeed to be facing off with a vampire, who could pin and drain me in seconds. Or torture me. But a dead or damaged telepath is no good to anybody, I reminded myself, standing up straighter, least of all to a vampire who was trying to mainstream in a climate where public opinion was wavering. Against him.

"His name is Al Cumberland," Eric finally said, curtly.

"Al Cumberland…?" I repeated, certain I was familiar with the name.

"The photographer," Bill explained. "He snapped Eric's photo at the farmer's market."

"Oh, Al Cumberland! Yes, I know him! Or I should say I know his work. He's well-regarded around here, famous for his photos of the Amish and rural landscapes." I'd admired them, including the fangy shot of Eric, at Town & Farm News, on that day I'd picked up the advertising form for Gran and had overheard that argument.

"I'm considering hiring Mr. Cumberland to do some photography for me, but I'd like to confirm he's not working at cross purposes."

"What kind of cross purposes?"

Pam answered. "We have some concerns because he was precisely at the right place at the right time when he took Eric's picture at the market. Was it a lucky shot or was he following Eric for some other reason?"

Strangely enough, I happened to be there too; I found it more than a little interesting that Eric had never asked me what _I _had been doing there.

"Okay, I'm ready," I said quickly, taking a deep breath.

Bill spoke up. "Eric, perhaps Sookie would be more comfortable on the sofa."

Eric gestured toward the sofa. Someone had lit several of the oil lamps, but they'd all been pushed to the perimeter of the room. The framed photographs and mirror had been stacked in two piles, leaning against the wall with the fireplace, and the coffee table was gone. That left a wide open space, nearly wide enough for an impromptu Zumba session.

Pam left the parlor. She returned momentarily with a heavyset black man with graying hair and a moustache. He wore a navy sport coat over a plain white, neatly pressed shirt left unbuttoned at the collar.

"Al Cumberland," Eric said gruffly to me.

Though I'd never _seen _him, I immediately recognized Mr. Cumberland's mental signature as belonging to the man who'd argued with Errol Clayton at the newspaper office. Today he was much more relaxed. "Mr. Cumberland, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Sookie Stackhouse."

"Miss Stackhouse," he nodded, and then glancing at me again he asked, "Do I know you?"

I could feel his brain churning in search mode and waited to see whether it hit upon any matches. He was like several other people I'd met, Sam being a prime example, whose thoughts left only a general impression. Now, for example, I could get the sense that he was genuinely, but only mildly frustrated.

"Do you ever eat at the Virginville Tavern?" I suggested, all the while wondering whether he'd recognize me from the exchange with Sarah and Eric at the farmer's market. It was just my shoulder in that photograph, shot from behind.

"No," he answered with a head shake, wheels turning, "but I believe I'm acquainted with the owner. Sam…Merlotte. Sam Merlotte's his name, right?"

"Yes, Sam owns and runs the tavern."

He still looked skeptical as he tried to recall me. Since he wasn't making any progress, I finally made a suggestion. "I've been to the Town & Farm offices once."

A sudden dawning of recognition crossed over Mr. Cumberland's face as I felt his thoughts snap. He let out a large belly laugh.

"Oh, yes! I believe you met our friend."

I was confused. "The woman at the front desk? Coppery hair?"

He laughed again. "No, no. Skinny black-and-white cat in the parking lot. I saw you from the office window."

"Oh! Is that your cat?" Flustered, I worried I'd accidentally taken the kitty from its owner. "I should have asked around more. But she was a ringer for a stray." Who definitely needed more caring for.

He stopped me, waving his hand dismissively. "No, no. She's not our cat, that poor mixed-up thing."

Bill glanced at me. He'd never met Bobbi. She'd acted strangely ever since Gran had died, skittering around the barnyard, darting here and there. And she didn't like her new designated sleeping spot, on my old bed. But she was still emptying her food bowl and depositing dead rodents by the barn.

"I take good care of her," I assured Mr. Cumberland, though I hadn't gotten the impression he'd lost any night's sleep over her. Maybe I was convincing only myself. "She's a good mouser."

Mr. Cumberland raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, good for her. Good for her."

Eric cleared his throat. I guessed he'd run out of patience for the greeting-and-establishing-rapport portion of tonight's telepath feature. "You may proceed," he directed.

Mr. Cumberland tilted his head toward me. All other eyes were on me, too—Bill's, Pam's, and Eric's, of course. Mr. Scrutiny. I forged ahead as though I'd done this a thousand other times. Sometimes pretending works just as well as the real deal.

"Mr. Cumberland, has Mr. Northman mentioned why I am here tonight?"

"I presume it has something to do with the fact that I've applied to work for him."

"Yes, and has he told you that I'm a telepath?"

"No, ma'am, he didn't." At this news, Mr. Cumberland registered mild surprise and interest. I had an image of his moving through life with great shock absorbers, generally taking the bumps and valleys smoothly, barely registering the vicissitudes. That morning at the newspaper office must have been a real doozy for him to have responded with such anger.

I pushed him to ensure my message was getting across clearly. "So you understand I can read peoples' thoughts? Their feelings too."

"Yes, ma'am, I reckon that's what a telepath does." Again, he took this information with calm acceptance, a good quality, I noted, for someone who was considering being employed by a vampire.

"And it often comes in clearer if I'm touching you." I was about to explain this procedure to him, as Bill and I had discussed during our walk through the woods, when Mr. Cumberland removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing his forearm.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes, fine." I shifted my position, both to get closer to him and to remind myself that I was in charge here.

I touched his forearm and began. "Tell me about the work you are interested in doing for Mr. Northman."

"Yes, ma'am. Photography. In studio and some candids, too, which will probably entail my following him. Only to the extent that he allows, of course."

"You have a studio?"

"Yes, in Intercourse, about a mile west of Fangtasia, just off the Pike."

"Is that near the Pizza Hut?"

He pointed at me, as though I'd gotten it. "That's right. Across from the old pharmacy."

"And what can you tell me about the work you've done?"

"I do special events. Lots of weddings. A few bar mitzvahs here and there; not many of those around. Family portraits, too, and a lot of portraits of high school seniors. The freelance photography I did for the Bugle was a hobby, really. I'm looking to branch out."

"Branch out…"

"Well, since my…separation from the Bugle."

"You've separated from them completely?"

"Oh, yes. On that day you were there. I left and never went back. Errol and I had a bad falling out, over the picture of Mr. Northman, in fact." I felt a spike of harsh annoyance from him, though nothing like I'd felt from him during my visit to Town and Farm News.

"You've calmed down quite a bit since then," I noted.

He laughed wryly. "I was madder than a hornet. They don't call it the Bungle for nothing, but Errol and I had a long-standing relationship, and I never thought he'd use one of my photographs that way. That was done with pure profit in mind. Or maybe it's more accurate to say to keep from going under."

"So you have no more associations with the Bugle?"

He shook his head emphatically. "Oh, no."

"And that photograph of Eric?"

He got the gist of my question immediately. "Right place, right time. Well, with some doing, that is." Something akin to pride swelled within Mr. Cumberland.

He continued, happy to be explaining how he'd gotten the shot. "I'd stationed myself there, waiting for a shot of that lady with her quilt in the background, never expecting a vampire to come into view. But when he did, I was ready. Call it good luck with a little bit of help from me."

"It's a wonderful photograph."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Do you know that Amish woman?"

"No."

Here, there was a curious bit of internal hesitation and tension. Since I might have touched on something, I stayed with it. "You don't?"

"No," he insisted. I could have sworn his arm flinched from me. "I've seen her around." He relaxed fully again. "Mostly around the farmer's market."

"Do you know her name?"

"No." He shook his head.

I couldn't push him any harder in Eric's presence. "How about Eric? Any other shots of him?"

He shook his head, but inwardly he paused. "I don't believe so. I can look for you. I probably took some other photographs—I almost always do—but none directly of Eric. Not that I remember, anyway. Of course it's possible he's in the background somewhere."

I nodded at Eric. I hadn't gotten the sense that Al was lying. Eric shrugged.

"I don't believe that's necessary," I answered. "But tell me what drew you to the farmer's market that day."

"Pork chops," he answered simply. "But I have my camera with me wherever I go."

I looked to Eric to see whether he was satisfied or wanted to know anything else; his expression was passive. So I forged ahead with something else I thought might be useful to know.

"The Amish value their privacy," I prompted.

Mr. Cumberland nodded his head emphatically. "Yes, and as I'm sure you know, they don't permit images of themselves. I always try to respect the rules of the people I'm photographing. For instance, with the Amish, I use a long lens to stay out of their way and move on, without lingering too long in any one place, and make sure people feel comfortable with me. If Eric here hadn't come along, I wouldn't have stayed there near the quilt lady for much longer. Out of all the years I've taken pictures of the Amish, never once did I get a complaint. Even have come to be friends with quite a few of them." I felt him grit his teeth. "Until the Bungle published that photo. Aye, yi, yi." He shook his head.

Bitterness was seeping through. Mr. Cumberland had enjoyed photographing the Amish until this most recent photo had soured him on the endeavor. Now I got the sense he was floating, looking for the next thing, which wasn't necessarily bad for Eric.

Since no one else was stepping forward to ask any other questions, I asked what seemed like a logical question, based on my experience helping Sam interview potential servers.

"How do you think you'll like being employed by a vampire now?"

"Looking forward to it. I always enjoy trying something new, switching things up."

Maybe this was a bit of a stretch, but it was nothing worse than any job candidate would say during a job interview. And he needed to make a living just like we all did.

Bill blatantly looked away.

It didn't escape Mr. Cumberland's attention. Mild irritation curled the very edge of his calm. "In a way there are some similarities, too. Vampires are their own group, just like the Amish, with their own customs and traditions." My telepathy aside, I thought it was a pointed statement. I looked to Eric to see if he'd noticed it, but his posture hadn't changed.

I had nothing else to ask. The room was silent.

"Are we all finished here, then?" Mr. Cumberland asked. He'd had plenty of patience, but I could tell he was starting to expect we'd be wrapping up soon.

"If we decide to proceed, I'll have a contract drawn up and couriered to you by the end of the week," Eric said.

"Fair enough."

I stood with him. He turned to shake my hand. "Pleasure working with you, Miss Stackhouse. Say hello to Miss Kitty for me." He chuckled. "She favors a scratch behind her left ear."

"Come visit if you'd like," I offered.

Without any further ado, he was being ushered out by Eric. As he was exiting, he pointed at me and said ambiguously, "I'll keep you in mind."

Bill moved next to me and squeezed my hand. There was little to discuss. I hadn't turned up anything really suspicious during my interview with Mr. Cumberland, but as I explained carefully to Eric, Pam, and Bill, I hadn't gotten a clear read on him, only a vague indication of whether he was lying or not and the general tone of his thoughts.

"Interesting," Eric said. If he was satisfied, he didn't acknowledge it, indicating only that Bill and I were _free to go_. I said _good evening_ to him and Pam nonetheless.

Outside, I breathed deeply the cool, damp, heavy air, feeling it settle inside. My feet and the bottoms of my jeans were soaking up the dew as we crossed the grassy field. On any other night, the wetness might have annoyed me; tonight, I imagined I was drawing it straight up from the earth.

"He'll want to use you again," Bill said plainly.

"Yes, that was the point."

"And you won't be able to refuse," he added, as if that point hadn't already been established earlier in the evening.

"I. Get. It," I said slowly through gritted teeth. We'd landed on Planet Eric long ago. I was too tired to think of it at the moment, and too tired to imagine whatever else Eric might lob my way. I'd have to save it for a time when I could think more clearly.

"Sookie…" Bill prodded.

"I can't think about it right now."

"He won't let up."

_Must be a vampire trait. _How many ways did I have to say it? "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," I started. "Take each day as it comes. 'Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow…'"

Suddenly, Bill pushed me against a tree, pinning me with the full length of his body, the hard ridge of his erection grinding against me. His fangs had run out, his mouth locked on mine. I felt his hands everywhere at once: winding in my hair, slipping beneath my shirt, grasping flesh, pulling at the waistband of my jeans. My knees started to buckle as the whole world turned on me.

I shoved him, in need of air. When he didn't respond immediately, I took both hands and pulled on his ears.

"No," I gasped, my mouth free of his. "Tonight we take a break."

"But Sookie," he protested, "it's not our night off. I want to fuck you right here." His fangs grazed my neck.

"No," I insisted. "I'm not anyone's chewy toy. Besides, we shouldn't be lingering out here like this." I stepped out of his reach to straighten my clothes—shifting the shoulders of my shirt and zipping my jeans. Bill's posture relaxed slightly, which gave me some degree of hope he'd acquiesce.

"Are you going to be a gentleman and escort me home?" I prompted. Gran would have insisted on it.

He picked up the flashlight that had fallen at our feet, offered me his arm, and silently began walking uphill with me.

"Here we are," I said when we'd reached the edge of the orchard. "You can wait here until I get to the front door."

"Gude Nacht, Sookie."

I made it to the front door just fine, but as it turned out, bedtime wasn't destined to come for a while.


	20. Road Kill

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard & talented work.

* * *

><p><strong>Road Kill<strong>

The moment after I'd closed the door of my front porch behind me, silence latched its curling lips on tightly, drawing for empty. The house was quiet. Too quiet. A far cry from the world of noise I was used to. I shook my head. My ears felt strangely hollow, like they might pop. I would have even welcomed a busy, chattering mind, because this…this kind of silence was vacant and airless. And dark. With no hope of anyone filling it with the gentle twist and murmur of sleep but me.

I missed Gran.

There was no replacing her. Sure, I could have swallowed my pride and called Bill; he would have been there in a heartbeat. But having already decided I needed a break from vampire-y things, I would _not_ take that path. I could do this solo.

Maybe with the help of a cat. It was worth a try, anyway.

I stuck my head outside and called to Bobbi quietly with a "Pssssst, kitty-kitty-kitty!" I waited and stayed alert for any sign of movement. There was none. "Psst!" I tried a few more times, to no avail. Some cat lady I was turning out to be.

Since I was already halfway out the door, I decided I'd scoot up the bank to my car to grab my book bag, which held a bunch of library books. I could finally start the first Carolyn Haines that Gran had been anxious to read, the series about "that southern gal who solves mysteries." Maybe I should have been more concerned about the Blue Ball vampire trio showing up, but they hadn't been here since that night they'd set off the fireworks. And anyway, I wasn't going to be stuck inside my house simply because they _might_ be lurking. That was no way to live.

Plus at the moment, I didn't have any other good ideas.

In fact, I had no trouble getting to my car. Its door was open, and I was leaning into the passenger seat, reaching for the book bag, when another car started to round the intersection down the hill from me and slowed suddenly.

I stood to look. In the dark, I couldn't tell who was driving, but the fact that it had slowed down so much made me wary. Its headlights were directed toward the corner stop sign and shallow drainage ditch…

…right where the body of a woman lay sprawled, stark naked.

Her form re-melded with darkness as the headlights swung in an arc; the driver passed her, parking crookedly opposite me.

"Whoa!" JB du Rone, former high school classmate, dumb and beautiful, leapt out, looking first at me, hesitantly, and then striding downhill. "Is that woman dead? What happened? Sookie, are you all right?"

Utterly bewildered, I stepped toward him. And her. I knew she was dead; I didn't need to touch her to know.

From what I had seen from the glancing glow of JB's headlights, she was completely naked, her arms and legs sprawled out with no guise of modesty, no hope of concealing her alarmingly thin body—collar and hip bones jutting out—with disproportionately large, round breasts.

JB was approaching her.

"No, JB!" I stopped him. It seemed wrong. I shook my head. "She's already gone."

"Holy shit, Sookie. What happened here?" He asked again, returning to face me and place both hands on my shoulders.

JB's warm press on my skin, his breath in my face and intent stare, the open candor of his thoughts—_that lady's big shnoz…no beauty queen—_suddenly softened me to the bleakness of this situation. The whole world was a cruel place, and all of us lambs heading for the slaughter.

"I…I don't know, JB I was only coming up here to get a book, right before you got here, and…"

"Couldn't have been here that long, then, right? Whoa, look at her. Naked as a jay bird." He glanced down at my hand, which was holding a cell phone. At some point, I must have reached into my pocket to pull it out. "Did you call 9-1-1?"

"Oh, uh…no. I…"

He nodded, as if to urge me to do it. JB was on a roll.

I punched in the numbers.

"9-1-1. What's your emergency?" the operator said, all professional-sounding, enough to put some starch back into my spine. I gathered myself up nice and tight.

"Hello, my name is Sookie Stackhouse, and I just found a dead body near my property, alongside the road. That's Hummingbird Road, near the intersection with Virginville Road." Having never made this sort of call before, I supposed that summed it up as best as it could.

"The body is dead?" the clipped female voice asked, clarifying, and suddenly I thought that was an awfully strange choice of words.

"As dead as a doornail," I almost quipped, but stopped myself, realizing how close I was to that bizarre place where the macabre verges on comical. "Yes, ma'am," I said instead, wondering whether we'd be bumped to the top of her list, or however it was that dispatchers prioritized their calls.

"Ma'am, are you injured or in need of any assistance yourself?"

"No, I'm with a friend."

"What is your friend's name, please?"

"JB du Rone."

"Do you know the identity of the deceased?"

"No, I don't believe I've seen her before, but it's hard to tell in the dark."

"I'm sending someone right away. Do you care to hold on the line?"

"No. I'll…hang up," I said. And then since that seemed to be an awkward ending for any call, I added, "Thank you. Good night."

"Let's wait over here," JB said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me to my car, where we both leaned. He was thinking I could probably use some comforting, and he was more than happy to oblige. He was still trying to figure out why I hadn't taken him up on many offers for dating, and marveling over the fact that he'd ended up here with me tonight, right next to a dead naked lady. All of this on an evening that had started out with a chili cheese dog at the PennSupreme.

"I think…" I began. Suddenly, the silence down the hill from us was horribly distracting; I wished JB would start thinking again. There was _nothing_ where the body lay. She could have been a table or a chair or any other inanimate object. I thought with dismay that during this fall alone, the count of dead women I'd directly encountered was now up to three. And that wasn't even including all the women and children gunned down by Jim Collins.

"I think," I finally said again, "I'm very tired."

"It's late," JB said agreeably, inadvertently distracting me in his own simple way. "You been out?"

"To get my library books."

"You're looking good," he said, admiring my outfit. JB had always been drawn to my blonde hair, big boobs, and shapely legs; tonight was no exception.

"Thanks, JB. Right back at you."

"I was out playing pool with some old football buddies. A normal night until now. Say, wha'd'ya think she's doing there?"

In the darkness, the pallor of her form was visible. I'd sorely wanted to cover her, but even I knew from the Discovery Channel it wasn't a good idea to get any closer. Maybe there'd be tracks in the gravel. A smear of blood. A dropped personal item. A…

"Don't look," I choked out.

"Aw, hey." He jostled me. "You've had some tough times." And at that, JB lit up inside like someone had flipped a bona fide switch. "Hey, you don't suppose this has anything to do with your gran, do you?"

It was an innocent question, motivated by a simple interest. And at this, I realized I had some thinking to do. And fast.

"I don't know, JB. Could be." My brain fumbled clumsily through a number of scenarios, but settled on none.

In the distant farmlands, colored lights flickered, disappearing behind a swell, reappearing, cresting, and winding. They traveled on different circuitous paths, from different directions, but eventually, they would all converge here.

I definitely had some more thinking to do.

"Don't you have to shut your door?" I prompted JB.

While he bounded across the road, I gave myself a little mental shake, figuring what my story would be. Obviously I had not killed this woman, but I had plenty to hide, and that was not a good feeling.

JB returned slowly, via a slightly wandering route that took him closer to the body. I could hear him wondering whether the thin chick's large boobs were real or implants.

When the police finally started pulling in, Bud Dearborn approached us first, strolling from his cruiser to me in a line that was casual in pace, but direct in its course.

"Sookie, what have we got here?"

I wasn't exactly sure whether that was a rhetorical question or one I was supposed to answer with the obvious. I aimed for somewhere in the middle.

"She was lying there, just like that, about fifteen minutes ago when I was coming up to my car."

Bud glanced at his watch. "You didn't see what happened to her?"

"No. She was…exactly like that when we found her. Actually, JB here spotted her first, as he drove by."

JB nodded vigorously. "All of a sudden, she was there in my headlights." He pointed downhill, where it looked like paramedics were confirming what I already knew. "Of course, it wasn't hard to spot her, with her being naked and all." Again with the boobs.

"And there was no one else?"

"No," I said. _Not at the time I found her_. "Just JB and me."

Bud Dearborn shone his flashlight at JB, avoiding a direct blast to his face, but scanning the rest of him. "Son, what are you doing all the way out here at this time of night?"

"Just on my way home from Dwight Yoder's place," JB said amiably. "Bunch of us from the old football team were playing pool."

"Mm-hmm," Bud answered, distracted by his own theory about what JB was doing here, which wasn't very kind. To me in particular. "Why don't you come over here with Detective Beck. Sookie, I'll be right back."

"All right. I'm not going anywhere." Bud paused, cast me a sharp look that told me I'd taken it a step too far. _Get a grip, _I coached myself.

He returned not a moment later. "Tell me again how you found this woman." He pulled out a notepad from the inner pocket of his coat.

"I was at my car, getting my library book bag. If JB hadn't come around the corner just then, I might not have seen her."

"So you and JB weren't together this evening?"

"No, only from the time we noticed her. He just happened to be driving by when I was out at my car."

"Were you home this evening?"

"Since about midnight, when I got home from work."

"She wasn't there then?"

I shook my head. "I would have seen her."

"Did you notice anyone else or anything suspicious?"

"No." Again, I shook my head.

"Not when you were coming home?"

"Nope."

"How about since you got home from work? See or hear anything unusual?"

"No, nothing."

"No cars stopping or slowing?"

"Not that I noticed, but that's not unusual around here."

"And you didn't have any visitors?" It hadn't escaped Bud's attention that I was fully dressed, not in anything that looked remotely like either work clothes or pajamas or knock-around-the-house wear. He noted my appearance with disapproval, _schlumbich_ popping into his mind. Bud didn't know much PA German, but somewhere he'd picked up the word for "slatternly."

"No, just me." The lies were rolling off my tongue.

"Jason didn't come by at all?"

"No." Lord, I hoped he hadn't while I was down at Bill's. But that would have been very late, even for Jason.

"And you haven't gone anywhere else?"

"No. Just stayed here. I wasn't feeling tired. It's been hard since my gran died." At least that was only a partial lie; I didn't need to fake the sadness washing over me.

Bud wasn't much for sympathy. He didn't think I was involved with this woman's death, but he thought I was hiding something, like maybe a secret relationship with JB. Worse, he thought my grandmother had spoken foolishly and figured that whatever had happened here was somehow related.

"Did you know her?" Bud's expression never changed. The squinched features of his face were firmly stuck, mashed in place; he would never open wide and see the world in any new sort of way.

"I don't think so, but I didn't get a really good look at her." My voice quavered.

He glanced back at the woman, and I wished he hadn't done that. Lots of personnel were arriving now, milling about. I could hear Alcee Beck snapping at them. Again, I wanted to cover her.

Andy approached at that moment, nodding curtly. He looked disheveled without his usual tie and sport coat. Tonight he was wearing a windbreaker kind of jacket and khaki pants that were a bit frayed at the cuff; I noticed it even in the dark. He was thinking about how drastically things had changed in the "no-man's land" portion of his career. I didn't know exactly what he meant by that, but he wasn't focusing on it any more to clear it up for me.

"She said she doesn't know her," Bud informed Andy, sounding aggrieved. He was miffed that one way or another, I wasn't going to make their job any easier.

Andy wasn't too happy, himself. Life had been a lot simpler when he'd been dealing with cows instead. More boring, yes, but also much simpler. "Do you have any idea why or how she'd end up here?" he asked me directly.

Okay, now we were getting down to brass tacks. "No," I answered simply, which was only partly a lie since I hadn't yet given it enough thought.

Was there something in my voice that hesitated enough to give Bud Dearborn pause? Or possibly he simply didn't want to believe me no matter what my story. Standing there beside the broad expanse of the barn, its dull moon glow, reminded Bud Dearborn of one of the many times he'd met up here before dawn with some other men and my father to go hunting. Maybe he and I should have held our connection through my father dearly, but that's not how Bud Dearborn saw it. He'd heard I was an odd person—didn't really want to give any consideration to exactly _how_ I was odd—knew my father had been troubled by me, and felt some sort of ongoing loyalty to him, even now nearly two decades after his death. Bud Dearborn was miffed I hadn't straightened myself out for my daddy's sake, for the man who'd died tragically.

_I was only a kid_, I wanted to tell him. _I can't help what I am._

I _really_ didn't like Bud Dearborn.

In the background, I heard Alcee Beck raise his voice again in annoyance. Bud and Andy seemed to snap to, as though they realized they needed to be doing something else.

"Sookie," Andy said, "let's take you inside to wait. This'll be a while."

Relieved to escape Bud Dearborn, I led Andy down the bank into the house. Along the way, he casually scanned the property, as though merely curious about what was here. He followed me inside to the kitchen, where he asked stiffly whether he could have a quick look around. "Sure," I said. Andy didn't think anyone dangerous was hiding out here, but he thought he should probably check just to be on the safe side. Of course I could have saved him the trouble and told him that my telepathy wasn't picking up any other mental signatures, but I didn't think it was the right time. Andy seemed…preoccupied with his own troubles and concerns, related to the "recent turn of events around these parts" and wondering when he was going to get his next full night's sleep. Also, he thought he should look around to make sure there wasn't anything else he ought to take note of, and at this, both of us shifted awkwardly, Andy, on account of the fact that he was aware I could hear his thoughts. Begrudgingly, I had to at least give him credit for acknowledging my strangeness, which was more than almost anyone else was willing to do. I was glad too that our roles weren't reversed, with Andy able to hear _my_ thoughts.

He took a few minutes to glance through my house. I had a flash of concern that maybe Bill had left something behind that would raise an eyebrow, but then I reassured myself that he'd always been so careful, so intent on hiding. I wondered briefly whether I should get out the big coffee percolator until I remembered I was running too low on coffee for a crew this big. At least I could be proud that my sinks were shining, toilets scrubbed, floors swept, beds made, clothes picked-up, and all of my magazines and the TV remote stowed tidily in a basket.

When Andy was finished, he came to tell me everything had checked out fine and that they'd be back to ask me a few more questions. He left me awfully alone with my own thoughts.

Who was she? Was somebody missing her right now? Was she somebody's wife or girlfriend? Daughter or sister? Best friend? Did she have a job? What did she like to do?

How was _I_ connected? That was the scary question. How had she come to land here, right outside my home? I'd done enough sneaking around in the middle of the night to wonder whether I myself had unwittingly set something into motion or been a party to something I didn't understand. It wouldn't have been the first time, after all.

The night dragged on. I paced and puttered a lot. Carolyn Haines was _still _out in my car. Out of respect for the dead woman, mostly it seemed wrong to do anything but wait. Having finished up with the police outside, JB stopped in to see if I wanted him to wait with me. "You go on. It's late," I urged him, figuring it best, too, not to confirm anyone's—namely Bud's—suspicions. With some reluctance, JB said goodnight, sneaking in one more hug. Unfortunately after he left, with nothing else to distract me, questions and concerns repeated themselves over and over again in my head. I'd gotten myself thoroughly whipped up when Alcee Beck, Andy Bellefleur, and Bud Dearborn knocked on my door. I heard their thoughts, which gave me a moment to compose my well-practiced face.

The identity of the deceased was still unknown to this group. And though her cause of death was unofficial, the word and image on all three of their minds was unmistakeable.

_Drained_.


	21. The Burden of Secrets

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard & talented work.**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>The Burden of Secrets<strong>

The night dragged on much too long.

Bird-in-Hand's finest stayed through most of the night while they finished their tedious investigation. I fell in and out of a tense, weird, sleep on the daybed, dreaming of the _dead drained woman dumped in the drainage ditch_.

_No, I hadn't seen anyone suspicious on my property, _I lied to the police, the words rolling off my tongue_. No, I hadn't seen any vampires. _

What choice did I have? Of course I wanted the mystery of her murder solved, both for her and the woman I'd watched being drained in the parking lot of Fangtasia. But what could I say—that they didn't already suspect—that wouldn't put our safety in jeopardy?

Did Liam, Malcolm, and Diane do it? That's what the police thought—even had sent patrol cars looking for them—though they never acknowledged it out loud to me.

Already, too, they assumed this crime related to Gran's vampire-loving notoriety. _Judas_, I hated the way her memory had been tainted. Alcee Beck in particular had declared vampires—the whole lot of them—twisted mother fuckers. It didn't make a hill-of-beans sense to Andy, though. He couldn't understand why vampires—even crazy ones like those Blue Ball vamps—would drain and dump a body at the home of someone who'd spoken out in their favor. He wondered whether there was something else, such as whether a vampire had reason to threaten me. If that were true, he thought I'd be stupid to nark on a vampire, especially one this brutal. But he didn't think I looked like any person living under the fear of a threat.

_Schnarefeggelgsicht, _I could have told him. The word for _false face_ in Pennsylvania German seemed more than fitting here. I'd had plenty of practice in my lifetime ignoring hurtful, disturbing thoughts while pasting on a fake smile, but now, this mask of calm moral integrity felt like the worst.

Meanwhile, Bud Dearborn floundered by himself with his own theories, convinced I was hiding a secret affair with the du Rone boy, based on his beliefs that (a) my tight, slutty clothes meant I'd been out having a good time and (b) no bar maid would walk this far to her car for a library book in the middle of the night. He spiced up the old pregnancy rumor with another twist, that I'd slept with JB behind Sam's back, but had socked Sam with the abortion expense.

The three of them wore me out; after they left, I fell into a deep, albeit brief sleep. During the last hour of darkness, Bill appeared by my bedside, having sneaked inside through the basement entrance. I started to speak, only to get choked up as tears flowed.

He knelt beside me, near my face. I expected he'd exhort me to relay what I'd told the police; to his credit, he waited for me.

"Do you think they did it?" I asked.

"It's possible. I'm sure they'll be blamed."

"Yes," I said, "They already are." I had to wonder how this investigation would impact Bill, given his worries that the Blue Ball trio could have discovered his secrets.

I glanced at the clock before tugging on his sleeve.

He met my eyes and then climbed over me onto his side to wrap me in his arms, pulling me to his chest, his dry scent comforting and familiar. I burrowed deeper and breathed him in again and again as his cool hands pushed aside clothing to find bare skin. My arm drawn across him, I felt his movement—shoulder blade slipping beneath muscle, stretching and tightening—animated. And when he pushed inside, his whole body set in motion: legs and hips flexing, spine bending; hand grasping, tugging me toward him with braced arm. His lips pressed against mine.

Neither of us faltered once. Straight and steady, pleasure built, never waning or dawdling or twisting askew, peaking sure and sweet.

\/ \/

Jason called the next morning, waking me from a deep sleep.

"Sis, what happened out there last night?"

I struggled to right myself, adjusting my loose bra dangling from my shoulders.

"Someone dumped a dead woman by the road, in the drainage ditch, downhill from the parking spot." Still waking up, I found it strange I already had a practiced response down pat.

"You okay?"

"Yes. How did you hear?"

"Bunch of us were playing cards at Dago's place. Heard it on the scanners. It ain't hit the papers yet, but the morning news showed some footage."

"So the word's out."

"Yep. All over. You, uh, see her?" Jason prodded.

"Yeah," I said simply, protecting her privacy.

"You see anything suspicious?"

"No." I reminded myself my lies aimed to help the greater good, to protect Bill and his family, not to obstruct anyone from finding out who had killed the woman_. _Maybe there weren't degrees of wrongness: wrong was wrong, and lying was lying. But in my heart, I believed otherwise. Maybe I wasn't a true Christian; it wasn't the first time that particular concern had crossed my mind since I'd gotten involved with vampires.

"Do you need anything?" he asked gruffly.

"We need to figure what to do with the smokehouse before the weather turns."

Jason had expected a different answer, but he perked up. "Okay," he said, enthused. He'd always liked home improvement projects. "I'll stop by later today to measure for materials."

"Better wait for a day or two in case we get some attention here."

"All right. Give me a call."

"Let me know how much money you'll need, and I'll write a check." I ran the numbers through my head, adding the amount I had stashed in my account plus the pay check I'd have coming. Might be close…

"We'll settle up when we're finished," Jason said, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been mighty sore about my getting the house from Gran, so money issues had become a hot topic between us.

After my phone call with Jason, I puttered, searching for a chore to keep my hands busy. I wanted to be outside, cleaning out the smokehouse—tending to a problem from simpler times—but I worried my property might draw attention. From the kitchen window, I spotted a couple of news vans as well as several police cruisers. Someone knocked on my door, too, but I decided not to answer. After what had happened to Gran, I was less than eager to have my face mashed up with hers alongside a twisted version of the truth.

So I read a little. Dozed on and off. Made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and a can of tomato soup for lunch. Every now and then, I glanced toward the barnyard to try to catch a glimpse of Bobbi or check for trespassers. The day dragged so much, I decided to clean the mineral deposits from the shower head in Gran's bathroom by soaking it in a bag of vinegar. That trick never works as well as it's supposed to, so I finished the job by using a toothpick to scrape away everything that didn't dissolve. Then I took a shower and gave myself a full beauty treatment.

While I stayed inside, the story of the day developed and ran its full course, traveling from my front yard in Bird-in-Hand, to Mt. Joy, to Blue Ball, where it ended, so to speak.

Authorities identified the murdered woman by two names I didn't recognize. Born into an Amish family in Mt. Joy, she had a history over the past few years of leaving and returning to her community. She'd been baptized last fall, which meant that following her most recent departure, she'd been shunned. At this point, rather than re-joining and confessing her sins to the church, she'd changed her last name to make a cleaner break. She hadn't been seen by anyone in Mt. Joy for several months at least.

The public reacted to the ex-Amish woman's death with outrage. Nearly everyone assumed the Blue Ball vampires held the blame. But justice would not run its due course. By mid-afternoon, their home burned to the ground, reduced to ashes with presumably them in it. By nightfall, sporadic reports of fireworks around the region were cropping up; some people saw occasion to celebrate.

At work, the dinner crowd hopped; a woman had been murdered, yes, but in the wake of the Stoltzenfus shootings, it seemed more important that her death had been avenged. The Blue Ball vampire trio—a thorn in the sides of many for the past few weeks, including mine and Bill's—was no longer. Shamefully, I had to admit I wouldn't miss them.

I was glad to see Sam behind the bar. "You let me know if you have any trouble tonight, you hear?" he said thoroughly tense. I noticed he had his baseball bat within easy reach. Last time he'd wielded the thing, he'd had to break up two farmers, one alleging the other's weed-spraying on a windy day had damaged his neighboring crops.

Scattered whistles and catcalls greeted me as I grabbed a tray and started my rounds, taking over tables from Dawn. "Sookie, Sookie," Chuck Beecham called, tipping his bottle of beer in my direction in a toasting fashion. "Those vamps got what they had coming to them." He wanted it known "his side" had won, the woman's death proof positive vampires were scum-of-the-earth.

Disgusted, I turned from him to head into the kitchen; Arlene breezed out, buzzing with the thrill of pent-up curiosity. "There you are! I heard you just got here."

"Yeah?"

"What a time you must be having." She held the door for me and trailed beside me.

"You know it." I concentrated on loading my tray, balancing the platters of food.

"It must have been awful. I can't imagine finding somebody…"

I stopped my actions. "Dead?" If ever there was an occasion to face a topic squarely, this was the one. "It _was_ awful. Poor woman. Murdered and tossed like trash by the road." Arelene's eyes widened. She wanted to ask more detailed questions. How close had I gotten to her? How had I discovered her? What had she looked like? Had there been a lot of blood? But now, she knew, wasn't the right time or place.

"Oh, poor woman," she agreed, matching my tone, and even though I hadn't disclosed much to her, she felt included in a special secret. "Tell me if I can do anything," she added.

I stepped out of the kitchen, concentrating on a loaded tray, to face a big TV screenshot of G. Steve Newlin. "You can't trust them," his mouth yammered. "You can't make friends with vampires. Make them your friend, and they stab you in the back. Think about this, folks. They dropped a dead, drained body off at the former home of the Poppycock Granny. She ought to be considered their friend, right? But clearly they work another way. This here is proof positive. _Actions speak louder than words_. They say they want to mainstream, but that's not how they're acting. They don't want our support. It's them against us. And I'm a human. I know what team I'm on."

I wished I could have taken a crack at the TV with Sam's bat; I stopped myself knowing I didn't have enough money to replace it for him.

I reached my table in the dining room, prepared to throw myself into my work, and almost laughed with relief as I came face-to-face with a large group of out-of-towners. I considered serving passers-through one of the perks of my job.

"I'm Sookie. I'll be taking over your table from Dawn. Where are you folks from?"

"Northern Virginia," one of them answered, a kindly man with round, ruddy cheeks, wire frame glasses, and salt-and-pepper hair, verging on more salt than pepper.

"Oh," I said. "Sam, the owner, moved here from Northern Louisiana."

They looked at me blankly for a moment or two, in which I wondered whether I'd said something ghastly. True, I hadn't been outside of my little neck of the woods much, and I'd assumed anything south of the Mason-Dixon Line was The South. But they'd said _Northern_ Virginia, as though it were an entirely separate state from _Southern _Virginia.

One of them, I couldn't figure out which one, had conjured up an image of the bayou, complete with moss hanging from the trees, alligators, and a houseboat.

"I've been to New Orleans," one of the women supplied in the faintest southern twang. She was reminiscing about the jazz scene, unfamiliar to me. It seemed like conversational cheating to say something like, "I hear the jazz clubs are great there," and so I said something more neutral. "I hear New Orleans is fun."

A man from the other end of the table called out, "With plenty of vampires, right Lydia?" And then the whole group laughed, including Lydia, at an inside joke I guessed, which left me squarely in the role of server. Dawn apparently had a different system of serving, and I needed to shift dishes to fit everything. Sauerkraut. Potato filling. Cope's corn. Applesauce. Pig's stomach.

The man who'd made the vampire comment wore a navy blue sweater vest and had black, thinning hair, parted on the side, and a thick, neatly trimmed beard. More hair grew on his beard, as though it had slid from his head to his cheeks and chin like continental drift. He watched the group with dark, beady eyes and a faint smile as they laughed at his joke.

A lot of side conversations erupted as people shared jokes with each other. 'Vampire' came up a lot, so often it became hard to distinguish between the spoken word and the thought.

"So, what are they doing here?" Sweater Vest said to me.

I shrugged. "Why not here? Don't you have vampires in Northern Virginia?"

He smiled. "Sure. But being next to D.C., we're a real melting pot. Here…not so much. Unless I'm mistaken."

I started to object—he'd gotten my back up—but who was I kidding? This region hadn't _ever_ been diverse, a fact I'd known forever as Lancaster County's Lone Telepath.

"Well," I said as cheerfully as I could muster, settling a bowl of chicken pot pie on the table and a fake smile on my face, "we're different from lots of other parts of the country. We have our own culture here."

"Right," he said, not willing to let up. "So why would vampires settle here, in a region with obvious ties to Christianity?"

All other conversations had stopped; they were looking at me. All of them, all…teachers, or…professors, I realized.

I laughed wryly. "Well, for one thing, the Amish usually don't bother with the vampires. They let them live in peace." _Hexenmeisters excepting._

That earned an appreciative laugh from Ruddy Cheeks.

"Mm-hmm," Sweater Vest prodded, with no intention of letting up. "But if your goal is to mainstream, why live _next_ to a group you can't integrate with? What's the connection?"

His motives weren't malicious, as far as I could tell. Not like Steve Newlin, wanting to call out the vampires for wrongdoings at every turn. But I didn't have answers for this man pressuring me. My disability hadn't made school my favorite place; now I was one student in a classroom full of teachers, not to mention the fact that I was keeping a few bundled secrets close to me.

"I guess they just like the rest of us Pennsylvania-Germans," I said lightly.

"Here, here!" Ruddy Cheeks smiled and held up his beer. A few of the others followed suit.

Unsatisfied, Sweater Vest had had enough of me. He sat back in his chair and took a casual drink from his water glass as "Poor, white, uneducated," flickered across his mind, like a checklist. I wished he had grabbed my backside or something that would have justified smashing a tray over his head. But thinking something mean was no crime.

"It must be the cooking too," Lydia added, and there were murmurs of agreement around the table as everyone else placed napkins on laps and shuffled their chairs to get ready to dig in.

"Why put yourself in the line of fire? That's what I'm saying," Sweater Vest muttered, not to anyone in particular at the table. "They're setting themselves up for trouble. Look at the attention they're getting now with this latest news. Makes me think they have some other draw to this region."

"But there's so much we don't know," Lydia said. "Did you see those latest population estimates?"

Ruddy Cheeks nodded. "I thought there were some problems with their methodology."

Folding up my tray stand, I asked if anyone needed anything else. They glanced at me with mild surprise, already ensconced in their discussion, and shook their heads.

_People have a right to live where they want to live without having to justify it,_ I thought to myself, working my way back to Sam's office to grab tissues out of my purse and catch my breath. As the tears flowed, I wiped at them madly, furious I'd let them get to me. That table's scrutiny had made me too aware of the secrets I was carrying for…creatures I didn't know much about. And while I still believed they deserved a fair shake…well, I had a lot to learn.

Footsteps in the hall inspired me to straighten up my act. I was at work, I reminded myself, and the job at hand involved nothing more than serving food and drinks. As a matter of fact, this would be the easiest part of my day. I smiled to undo the grimace on my face and gave my ponytail a tug. And dabbing at my eyes one more time, I went out into the crowd.

The night flew. Concentrating on orders and customers was strenuous, but rewarding work. There were a few other Chuck Beechams in the crowd, but most people were merely curious about the murder, Bird-in-Hand's first in many years, and treated me as a local celebrity. I answered their questions as up front as I could while still protecting the murdered woman's dignity, which usually satisfied them enough to steer them away from the topic of my gran. Plus they tipped generously.

Knowing I wouldn't be seeing Bill—he'd left me a message saying he was going to be busy—I picked up a few extra cleaning chores at the end of the night until Sam told me flat out it was time to leave. I had grabbed my purse and was on my way out the front door when almost as an afterthought, he called from behind the bar.

"Have a drink with me?"

It was an unusual request, for sure.

"Rum and Coke?" he prompted. "Gin and tonic? Plain soda? I have this nice white wine left here." He popped a cork off a bottle and peered down the neck.

Aw, hell. One drink wouldn't hurt, and a change would be good. "I'll take you up on the wine." I dropped my purse and coat on the spot and headed for the bar. Sam served me my glass atop a fresh cocktail napkin before darting into the kitchen to return with his personal stash of cheese and crackers. He fixed a nice plate up for us. I realized I was hungry, having skipped dinner.

"Crowd seemed to settle all right tonight, and business was good," I offered, working to keep up my end of the conversation as I reached for a cracker.

He nodded. "We dodged a bullet, only I can't remember the last time we ran out of ham." He kicked himself internally for the misjudgment.

"But I didn't get any complaints. Your customers are always happy with the food, Sam." I didn't mind saying the truth. In fact, I should say it more often, knowing how hard he worked.

Sam shrugged. "It's all right."

Awkward silence passed between us. Something else stirred his mind, something generating unease and discomfort inside; I assumed the scene at my house last night had come to mind.

"I can't talk about it anymore," I said. I'd packed it away for the night and didn't have the energy to bring it out again.

"Aw, heck," he said. "I'm sorry you're having such a time of it. And for what it's worth, I thought you handled that table well."

"Which one?" I took a long, cool swallow of wine, sharp in my throat.

Sam didn't let it go. "You know which one. I saw them badgering you with questions."

"Eh," I flicked my hand. "They let me go when they figured out I didn't have the answers they were looking for."

He shook his head. "That guy had the nerve to stick his head in my kitchen and ask if he could have my potato filling recipe."

"Oy," I agreed, warmed inside, not only from the wine. I reached to squeeze his hand.

The sudden and immediate anxiety leaping off him made me draw back. "What's wrong?" I asked. The mood between us had swung so wildly, I stood up from my bar stool, as if readying myself to handle a crisis. Put out a fire or something. Toss a drowning person a life preserver. _Throw, don't go_, the signs always read at the Y.

"I need to tell you something."

"Sure." Inside and out, I braced myself.

"I've been trying to figure out a way to tell you, and the time is never right."

"It's all right. Whatever it is." Considering the latest course of events, I might have stretched my sentiments a bit.

"I have to show you," he said, turning his back to me. Aghast, I watched him begin to strip his clothes.

"Whoa! What are you doing?" Flustered at the sight of his naked back, I didn't know how to stop this runaway train. _Oh Lord,_ he undid his belt and unzipped his jeans too. All right, I might have taken a peek or two as he undressed, but I definitely did not enjoy it as much as I would have without the powerful mix of determination and anxiety radiating off of him, like he was pumping himself up to walk across hot coals. The air around him started to waver, and with wobbly legs, I plunked right back down on the stool. A gloppy noise sounded too, not at all unlike the mud puddles Tara and I used to make by the creek, our bare toes glurping in the oozy mess.

And then, he dropped in a flash behind the bar. I stood. "Sam?!" In spite of my best efforts to stay calm, I heard the fear in my voice.

Leaning over the bar, I saw his discarded clothing, and on top, a beloved and familiar dog. Dean.

I walked around, squatted, and looked him in the eye, bewildered. The dog whined and nudged me with his nose.

"Sam?"

He barked.

_Well, shit._


	22. Changes

**Disclaimer:** The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

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><p><strong>Changes<strong>

It's not every day that your boss turns into a dog. And it sure did explain a lot about Sam and why he did things the way he did.

"Can you turn into a hawk?"

"Yeah, but flying is hard, and I worry I'll smash into a window or something."

"How 'bout a bear?"

He grinned. "Yep. But what would you do if you saw a bear?"

"Oh, well that's easy. One came up through the orchard one day when I was twelve. Gran and I watched him for a good while until something spooked him and he took off."

He shook his head. "Most people are afraid of them. Or they want to shoot them. That's why I lean toward a collie. Something non-threatening that people like and don't try to hunt down."

"I get your point." I couldn't help but smile with him; I was so curious about his otherness I might have been tempted to run through the whole alphabet of animals, from A to Z. I managed to contain myself, though I snapped my fingers when I remembered something. "That figurine you have on your desk…"

"Yep. That's me. I keep him there so I have a model of something to change into."

"It suits you, and I like Dean." Though I confess I was also thinking of big game cats, and whether I'd be able to approach him if he turned into a lion.

"Since my dad died, it's just been my mama and me. Not even my brother or sister knows." Pumped up and radiating a mix of nervousness and giddy relief, Sam was pacing behind the bar like he was doing a victory lap, which made for plenty of interesting jiggling. I tried not to stare.

"You get used to finding ways around your human life during the full moon when you _have_ to shift. It's just part of life. Something I _like_ to do. The hard part is being different, different from almost everyone else, without being able to say it. Going along with everyone else even though you don't always see things the same way. You know?"

I nodded, beginning to squirm with the slight shift in conversation. This was Sam's albatross he'd released. Not mine.

"You didn't realize? I mean, you couldn't tell?" He tapped his forefinger on his temple and nodded at me.

"Oh, well…" I stammered, put on the spot. Sam had hinted at my telepathy, but had never tried to pin me down. "No, I never figured you could turn into a dog. Didn't even know such a thing was possible." But now I guessed I would run into a few others of his kind. In fact, as I thought about it, I realized I already had.

He stopped his pacing to take another drink from his wine glass before bracing his hands against the bar.

"Sookie," he started to say in a softened tone that made me flinch; I did not want this discussion of Sam's revelations to turn on me. "Maybe sometime you and I could get a cup of coffee or something. I mean, not like a business dinner, _verschteh_?"

I smiled at his try at common PA German, but a flare of anger jolted me. Sam had probably sensed my otherness right from the get-go, just as I had sensed his, though I hadn't understood it. But it was my dating a vampire—which explained his sniffing and weirdnesses around me—that had pushed me into the doable range for him. Sookie Stackhouse, girlfriend to all creatures.

_Too late, buddy_, I wanted to snap at him. The Sookie Stackhouse queue had been wide open for _many_ _lonely_ _years_. No number needed.

But now wasn't the time to confront him, which made me even angrier. I'd have to sit on it or risk his thinking I wasn't okay with his differences. I swallowed it whole, felt it catch in my throat like a piece of raw dough. "Thanks, Sam," I said simply. "We can figure a time after things quiet. I'm still trying to settle Gran's affairs." That was the truth.

Sam had the decency to look discomfited. "Sure, sure. Of course. When things settle for you. You've…got a lot."

\/ \/

News of the murdered woman from Mt. Joy floated around for days to come.

"Drained," the headline blared in the Bird-in-Hand Bugle. "Mt. Joy Amish-Born Woman First Bird-in-Hand Murder in Decades." The article pointed out that the body had been discovered on Hummingbird Road by JB du Rone of Bird-in-Hand and Sookie Stackhouse, granddaughter of the deceased Adele Stackhouse, outside her farmhouse. But then of course the article rehashed our history in detail: how Gran had gained her notoriety responding to allegations that vampires were behind Jim Collins's massacre and how she'd met a tragic death at the farmer's market. I sent the paper straight to the recycle bin, disgusted by how the woman's murder had been used to stoke gossipy details for a readership clamoring for more and more.

Errol Clayton and a few other local reporters from various publications came knocking on my door. Someone by the name of Harp Powell slipped his card in my mailbox. I fielded countless phone calls from the press, too, and declined every single one of them, seeing as how Gran's words had been twisted. Eventually, I stopped answering my phone. The last thing I needed was any more attention, be it positive or negative.

The police department called me to the station to answer a few more questions. "Had I known or ever seen the victim?" they asked, showing me pictures of her.

"No," I answered, saddened by the sight of her looking so vibrant and healthy. I'd wanted to attend her funeral, but the service had been for family only, and of course I understood their wishes for privacy.

"Had I seen these vampires?" they asked, showing me a picture of Liam, Malcolm, and Diane.

"No."

It made little difference. Their thoughts told me they'd already reached a firm conclusion about their guilt, and I had to acknowledge I had no reason to believe otherwise. Still, my own conscience railed at me for lying.

Bill devoted a few nights here and there to "wrapping up loose ends." His reaction to the lynching was so morose that I wondered again how close he'd been to them. Or whether they'd discovered something about him that had already leaked out. Maybe the Blue Ball vamps had picked an ex-Amish victim to send Bill a message, that they knew of his Amish past. When I asked him about it directly, he said only that they'd taken great pleasure in stirring up trouble.

In that case, they'd done a good job of it. The general public was primed to express outrage over the harm befalling its peace-loving plain folks.

"Do you remember that young Amish boy, Jonas Miller?" Bill queried one night, when we'd settled in for pillow talk.

"Jonas Miller…"

"You might have been too young. I believe I was out of school. His family lived in a neighboring district."

"No…" I shook my head, unable to remember the boy. "Could be I still lived with my parents."

Bill continued. "Jonas was riding his scooter home from school one afternoon. His siblings had cut through the field, but Jonas stayed on the roadside, on Virginville Road, about two miles west of where it intersects with Hummingbird Road."

"As Gran would say, 'that road gets real turny.'"

"Yes. And you learn real quick when you're in a horse and buggy that people aren't always careful with their driving. But on that day, an oncoming motorist came too quickly around the bend, shot across the road, and hit him."

"That's horrible!"

"Ja, very sad," Bill agreed, though he had another point to make. "He was on life support at the hospital for a few days before they let him go. Englishers listed his date of death as the day they cut him off life support. But the Amish, they considered his death that day when he was _hit_, not when they stopped the machines."

I couldn't say anything to that. There was no opinion I could offer to Bill that wouldn't sound trite or too simple. I could only lie there with him and wonder in awe about the world of things we couldn't fathom.

He was motionless next to me; I wondered whether his brain had stilled and quieted as much as his body. When he finally shifted again, I asked, "What do you think?"

"I don't reckon I know," he answered casually, as though he might be contemplating his picks for favorite movies of the year. "What is a soul? I know I'm different from the way I once was." He made the leap from Jonas Miller to himself without a bat of his dark eyes. "I have the same body, but it works different now, animated by…something else. Different drives. Different strengths and vulnerabilities. Different rules to follow. My whole life has been changed—from Amish man to vampire in hiding to vampire skirting English society. But parts of me…parts of me still seem the same. I think so, anyway. I still have memories of how I _think_ I used to be, only I can't tell how those memories have been altered over time. It hasn't been that long, but my perspective's changed so much, how do I compare? What's gone is gone. And the longer it's gone, the harder it is to tell."

Again, I didn't have any answers for Bill, but this time, I said as much. "Of course I don't know, and I don't have a good way to relate. I can think back to when I was, say five year's old, and remember certain things, but not all of it."

Before I could finish, he jumped in. "Surely you've changed, but do you feel like the same person?"

"Yes," I acknowledged. "Mostly I feel like the same person. I've got the same voice inside. It's still me in there."

"The way it _should_ be," he said, startling me with the finality in his tone. Perhaps he read something on my face, as schooled as it was. His eyes flickered briefly, as though he had been startled too; we were just passing it back and forth, it seemed. He brushed my forehead with his fingertips before placing his palm on my cheek. "Sweetheart, I mean that for _you_ it is the way it should be."

I breathed out, letting go of a loosened bit of tension, dredged deep. "Yes, I'd rather die—tomorrow or fifty years from now—than become a vampire."

He nodded, leaving the rest of our conversation unspoken.

\/ \/

Before long, more excitement surged in the papers again.

On the front page of the Bugle, three young Amish girls posed with expansive grins, with no reticence of the camera on their faces or in their bold postures. Their arms wrapped around each others' shoulders, as though at any moment they might break into a Rockette style high-kick routine. Right over their Amish dresses, they wore pale pink t-shirts with those fuzzy, iron-on bubble letters in black. "Fang Girl #1," one of them said. The other two said, "Team Eric."

Eric had acquired an Amish girl fan club.

There was a small accompanying story, dwarfed in size by the photograph, entitled, "Devil's Playground Draws Amish Youth." The story went on to say that Amish kids had been seen hanging out during daylight hours in the ToysRUs strip mall, outside the vampire bar Fangtasia, owned by Eric Northman. The kids—three girls and two boys—had gone shopping, purchasing cookies from the bakery and a Nerf football from the toy store, before moving to the space in front of Fangtasia. There, they'd sat on benches to eat and then tossed a football in the parking lot. At one point, two had paired off to kiss and hold hands.

Of course the article also quoted a demonstrator from the FotS, now in near permanent residence on the sidewalk opposite the strip mall. I skipped his remarks since I'd had more than my fill of their hoopla. The kids had been "unavailable for comment." Police officers had arrived quickly to ask them to move to another location, which they did without causing a fuss. And that seemed to be the end of it.

Except that it wasn't. The next morning, bright and early, I got a call.

"Miss Stackhouse?"

"Yes."

"This is Bobby Burnham from Fangtasia."

"Bobby Burnham?" I wanted to make sure I'd gotten his name right.

"Yes." There was a moment of silence. I almost said, "Hello?" when he snipped, "I'm Eric's Day Man."

_Eric's Day Man?_ "Okay." I said, fishing for more information.

"I'm calling to confirm your appointment with Eric Northman this evening in Intercourse."

"I'm sorry?" Had I missed something? A skipped voicemail message? I'd been combing through them carefully; the inquiries from the press had dropped to one or two per day.

"Are you not contracted to provide services to him?"

Ah-oh. I sank onto the daybed. I couldn't say I was surprised Eric was calling me in after yesterday's press coverage. And a deal's a deal. But this come-when- I-say attitude wasn't what I'd envisioned. Still, I didn't think I should be hammering out any details with Bobby Burnham, Day Man, except for working out some time after my shift to go home, to avoid having to do another Superman-in-a-phone-booth change, which for sure would raise Sam's eyebrows again. I'd want to eat dinner and catch up with Bill first too.

Mr. Burnham didn't appreciate being kept waiting. "May I tell him you'll be there?"

"I can be there around ten this evening." I gave myself a little extra padding.

"Very well. I'll tell him."

I started to say goodbye, but he'd already hung up.

As I got ready for work that morning, I mulled over how I'd gotten to this point. I'd started out agreeing to help Bill commission a quilt from his sister. From there, I'd saved a few Hexenmeisters—but not all—from trouble at a vampire bar; along the way, I'd been party to a woman's death and outed as a telepath. Things might have settled at that point if Jim Collins hadn't gone on his killing spree, drawing so much attention to Lancaster County. The FotS had stepped in to feed a hungry press a full buffet, my own gran being served up as one of the side dishes. And then another woman had been murdered and tossed outside my home like trash.

I _had_ to do something, of that I felt certain.

Only throughout my shift, my nervousness grew as the scene at Fangtasia replayed in my mind. I saw myself rushing for Camo Girl, grabbing her, and rolling with her on the parking lot. Then Long Shadow was bearing down on us, striking at Camo Girl, her body slackening into the gravel, the terror on her brain fizzling to nothing. And above it all, the frightened voice of the Hexenmeister prayed: _Forgive us, Lord, where we have sinned against thee. _

\/ \/

I took a shower as soon as I got home, loosening my worries as I focused on getting ready. By the time Bill arrived and I'd slipped into my robe, the shower was so steamy, I needed to escape it and sit on the bed to untangle my hair. He took my comb and joined me.

I told him of my plans for the evening.

"He's pushing the limits," Bill muttered.

Irritated, I twisted to face him squarely.

"It would have been courtesy for him to inform me," he said.

"I know, because I'm _yours,_ right?"

He stopped combing. "Sookie, make no mistake that I've claimed you as mine as a way to protect you. And I've done nearly everything in my power to see that you've stayed safe."

That made me wonder exactly what Bill had done.

"You should take blood from me."

"Blood?" _Ick._ He'd never made this suggestion before; sitting there between his legs, I suddenly felt trapped. I stood up to gain space from him.

"It won't change you."

"How do you know that?"

The corners of his mouth twitched as though suppressing a smile. "Because one sip from me won't change you."

"No?"

He shook his head. "But if my theory is correct, it'll make you better able to concentrate on your telepathy. Remember that day Maxine Fortenberry overwhelmed you?"

I crossed my arms, annoyed he'd mentioned Maxine when obviously we were dancing around something else here, involving two dumpsters, some Hexenmeisters chucking mice at each other, one pissed-off vampire, and a drainer, now dead.

"My telepathy has _never _worked well locating the source. And what happened last time at Fangtasia wasn't _all_ my doing."

He sighed. "Vampire blood has many healing properties. It can quicken your reflexes. Build your strength. And I suspect it would improve the powers of your mind too." He reached for my hands and pulled me between his legs. "I can't be there to help keep you safe, but I can do this for you."

I felt myself soften. "How would we do it?"

"Any number of ways. Neck. Wrist. Groin."

I wrinkled my nose at groin. "Not there." Especially with him sitting on the edge of the bed, that felt like something else entirely. "Your neck," I said, figuring it best not to consider too closely the ins and outs of neck versus wrist.

He pushed back on the bed and tugged on me to come along with him as he stretched out.

"Here." He unfastened a couple buttons and exposed his neck by pulling aside his collar.

"How…"

"Just go ahead and bite hard or I'll use a knife. Either way, it won't hurt me."

I had another moment of hesitation. Bill lay flat on his back, with his neck and shoulder exposed and his hands by his sides. I climbed on top of him. He didn't object.

I leaned in.

"A little lower," he directed.

I reviewed with myself why I was doing this. And having that squared away in my head one last time, I bit. I just went for it, all the while reminding myself this was an ordinary event for Bill. His blood tasted coppery, like human blood, but cold. With the first few draws, I had to force shivery swallows.

Beneath me, Bill stirred, his hands roaming inside my robe and tugging it open. His cool touch jolted me with awareness: knees and elbows pressing into mattress, teeth sinking into flesh and sinew, damp skin brushing against broadcloth. I could smell Bill's dry skin, his mellow buttery soap, and beyond, the faintest whiff of Gran's White Shoulders talcum powder. His blood had warmed in my throat, almost the way a hard chill can burn and tingle; it swept me along in its flow, rousing me to drink, vibrating to the tips of my fingers and toes. And other places too. We began twisting and moving against each other with another purpose in mind. Bill unfastened his pants, and with little effort, pushed into me. For a moment, I traveled someplace else entirely, my little part of the world in Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania slipping as darkness pooled around me and tugged.

In the shadows, a sure-footed chase began. The hunted darted ahead, terror in its winded lungs and pounding heartbeat, exciting its pursuer, faster still. I felt the motion, muscles flexing and stretching, reaching with arms outspread-so close!-and then the exhilarating grasp, clenching the thrash-wriggle-quiver of last life.

Bill moaned and twitched. I released him.

_Whoa. _

For a moment, I lay next to him, verklempt and limp. Moisture from the bathroom still permeated the air. I shifted, felt the bumps and ridges of my bedspread beneath my legs, only to realize it was in fact my bunched robe. Gran's old wind-up clock out by the phone seemed to have picked up a burst of energy, ticking so madly it threatened to explode. I lurched, suddenly frightened I'd taken too much from Bill.

"Bill! Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes."

\/ \/

Getting ready for Fangtasia that night, I found I needed little makeup, my skin a healthy, rosy color, even with my faded tan. Was I just imagining it? Or was I flushed from our earlier session?

_Really, Sookie,_ I chided myself. A _session_? There'd been more to our _session_ than the usual whoop-dee-do since I'd also chomped into Bill's neck and chugged his blood.

I gave myself another once-over in the mirror. My hair glinted with unusually bright highlights, and my eyes shone with alertness. Even my teeth were whiter. Definitely different. _Annerschder._

As I added silver jewelry to my look, I said a prayer to myself and plucked one more item from my bureau—the carved wooden distelfink, warm and smooth in my hand—and tucked it in my purse.

For good luck.


	23. Causes

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

* * *

><p><strong>Causes<strong>

Fangtasia's dance floor wriggled and shifted like a swarm of ants hot on a trail of sweetness. To watch the exhilarated mash of limbs and bodies, wrapped in fishnet and studded leather or filmy black chiffon and velvet, you'd never know anyone had ever questioned whether vampires should join the rest of the modern world. And though I doubted the khaki-clad tourists would have felt welcome tonight, without them—right or wrong—vampires were missing a crucial chunk of the population: mainstream America.

Trudi, the tongue-pierced, black-lipstick-wearing woman I remembered from last time was missing tonight, too. Thinking of her—and wondering whether she was still taking classes while working at Best Buy—I went to the bar for a Coke, only to meet up with Long Shadow's sullen stare. There was no use even trying with him. As he slid my drink in front of me, the vampire named Chow arrived, with his myriad tattoos squirming out of the scraps of his muscle tee. Long Shadow stalked off, without a single word, and as though they had coordinated their act, Chow leaned across the bar to get close to my ear. "Eric is requesting you join him in his office now." He lingered for the slightest moment before pulling back, nodding to emphasize the _now_ part of his message.

I took a quick drink, left a tip—for Chow—and began navigating through the handsy crowd. Anyone with half a brain could tell they had nothing but sex on their minds; as a telepath, I got treated to the extra details I would have rather missed. Though thanks to my telepathy, I managed to dodge a few gropes and tweaks headed my way. So it was with a sense of urgency, and not a heck of a lot of grace, that I rattled into Eric's office.

The vampires blinked.

They were stationed around the room: Eric seated behind his desk, facing the door; Pam perched on the adjacent sofa; and Long Shadow leaning against the file cabinet, to the right. Throwing my shoulders back, I straightened up tall, and said, "How's it goin'?" in my most cheerful tone.

Eric looked at me blankly, possibly considering.

Pam shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward. Tonight, if you could believe it, she'd traded in her work costume for a strand of pearls draped over a pink twinset. "Sookie, our telepathic friend," she said, smiling. "It's always a pleasure."

I counted up the number of times I'd met Pam—now a grand total of three—and figured I must have made quite an impression. And I'm not saying that in any way to toot my own horn. In acknowledgement, I merely inclined my head.

No one seemed to feel any need for social chitchat, which was a relief tonight; all of their attention was directed at the numerous sheets of notebook paper lining Eric's desk. Pam plucked one of the creased pages and held it by its very corner between two of her polished fingernails, right in front of my face.

"Take it," she directed, fully expecting me to handle the thing even if she didn't want to. It was saturated with a cloying floral scent that made my nose twitch.

"What's that smell?"

"Patchouli," she said. "Over whom, I don't know."

That gave me pause.

_Vampire Eric,_ the note began. With its fat, looping letters, and hearts and circles dotting the letter "_I"s, _it might have been penned by any school girl.

Eric, at last, made a noise, a clearing sound in his throat as though to indicate, _Now I am ready to speak._

It worked. We all turned to him.

"Some of that is in German," he said.

"Oh." I took another quick look. "Yes, Pennsylvania German," I clarified, and I had a moment of realization that my worth had doubled since I was also acting as a translator.

"Go ahead," Eric said, pushing back in his chair, his hands folded across his stomach.

I looked down, delving into the one I was holding, and felt the back of my neck begin to tingle as I caught the full meaning. The content...well, the content pushed the boundaries of what I personally would call a love note, promising to make good on all kinds of…extra special treats.

Under other circumstances, I would have been tempted to twist the paper sideways and upside down.

"It's all the same," I said hurriedly. "I mean, I don't think there's anything extra the PA German is adding to the…overall intent." _Judas,_ I hoped they didn't want me to translate word for word; I grappled with finding a distraction.

This particular one wasn't signed. "Do any of them have signatures?"

"No, but according to the day staff, they appeared around the same time the Amish youth were loitering in the parking lot." Eric sounded like a crotchety headmaster. He grabbed a copy of yesterday's _Intercourse Inquisitor_, which he passed to me. Its front page looked much like the _Bugle_.

Though I'd already seen the photographs, I spent a few more minutes looking at them. Aside from the fact that the girls were posing for a camera and wearing fang girl t-shirts, they might have been any Amish girl out in the fields or at the market or on the roadside, riding her scooter. They sported Kapps, with their hair parted severely in the middle and pulled into buns. One wore simple wire-frame glasses. And though it was hard to tell in this photograph, none appeared to be wearing makeup.

"They look familiar to me, but maybe that's just because they look like almost any young Amish woman I might bump into."

"They all look the same," Eric scoffed.

I'd just said nearly the same thing, but coming out of his mouth, it sounded like a slur.

"I have an _Amish girl_ fan club."

His message was unmistakable: he wanted them gone. And it wasn't like he could strong arm any of them into leaving him alone. Not while the press hovered. With a gang of the most peaceful people in the country flitting around him, he couldn't so much as swat his arms.

A month or two ago, I might have been tempted to laugh. But not now. Not after all that had happened.

"Where are these notes turning up?" I asked.

"One of our staff, Ginger, noticed them by the front door when she was leaving on an errand. Belinda, another employee, found them at the back employee entrance when she arrived for work," Pam answered.

With the letters lying out in the open like that, it was only a matter of time before someone else intercepted them. "Did they actually see the kids leaving the notes?"

"Ginger says she didn't, but I believe she saw something that she's not saying. Belinda saw a few of them hanging around the back when she arrived. She's not sure if they're the same ones pictured in the paper."

And then everyone fell silent, looking at me. Since I now had a sense of where things were heading tonight, I took a stab at what I already knew. "All right, for starters, this running around isn't normal for Amish kids—hanging around a vampire bar, sending…pornographic love notes, kissing in public, wearing Fang Girl t-shirts…"

"According to Oprah it happens," Pam chimed in.

"Yeah," I said. "I saw that show. The one on "Amish Spring Break?" A documentary had come out showing wild Rumspringa behavior, which of course had captured the public's attention as well as their imagination. _What happens in Rumspringa, stays in Rumspringa_, the t-shirts said.

Pam nodded. "Those kids were using."

"And there were the kids caught using cocaine in Ohio or Indiana," Eric added.

"That's right. A few years back." They'd done their homework. "But it's still not typical. A six-pack of Yuengling is more their speed, _if_ they use anything. But mostly they do things like tossing a Nerf football. Eating cookies on a bench _outside a bakery._ Sunday night singings. On a wilder note, organizing concerts in fields and barns."

Long Shadow, who'd been standing eerily still, popped to life. "They could be using vampire blood."

I couldn't even imagine it, but yeah, I guessed he'd have a beef about vampire blood, having nearly been drained in the parking lot. I wasn't inclined to toss Long Shadow any bones, but I supposed if I were forced to, I could acknowledge that vampire blood would explain the sexed-up activities. As Bill had explained to me, it could act like Viagra.

Abruptly the room grew a lot warmer.

Pam and Eric were exchanging looks. "Or maybe they're spelled."

Well, I couldn't say I'd considered that possibility either, but Eric and Pam both looked invested. "Spelled?" I asked. Images popped into mind of Eric hanging a hex sign over his front door, right next to his fancy script lettering.

"The witches have been agitating," Pam said, as though that explained everything.

For not the first time, I sensed I was in it far deeper than I'd ever realized.

We fell silent for a moment, until Eric finally spoke to Pam. "Go get Ginger." Long Shadow remained next to the filing cabinet, where he stood with his arms across his chest. After shifting to allow Pam to pass, he resumed his vampire-motionless posture.

Apprehension twisted in my stomach. Call it performance anxiety. I had the urge to crack my telepathic knuckles, do something to warm up.

"Sit down here." Eric gestured to the chairs in front of his desk with the nonchalant authority of someone used to being in charge. Since I at least had a choice of two chairs, I took the one furthest from Long Shadow, uncomfortable having him directly behind me. While Eric watched, I busied myself with straightening the notes and envelopes and placing them in two neat piles on his spotless desk, free of typical office clutter. Even his computer cables were tidy, and judging from Sam's desk, those things were impossible to manage.

When she entered the room, the Ginger's first order of business was criticizing me: _Who does she think she is, acting all uppity like she's sittin' on a throne? _She appeased herself by deciding my ponytail was too weirdly tight and that my clothes were much too ordinary for any vampire to take note of me.

Pam guided her into the chair next to me.

"Sookie, this is Ginger, one of the day staff." Eric said.

"Well, hey," she said, more to Eric than me, batting her blackened, spidery lashes with intense, confident interest. As she turned to look around the room, her long hair, coarsened with styling product, fell aside in a clump to reveal the telltale fang marks of a vampire.

"Answer this woman's questions," Eric commanded.

"Yes, master," she groveled, snapping straight in her chair and pushing out her exposed cleavage.

I wanted to kotse-up on the spot. But instead, I reached for the pile of letters, which had escaped Ginger's notice. The instant I did, her anxiety spiked. "I already said I know nothing about those."

"Okay," I said, noticing Pam had already started to move toward Ginger. "I can help confirm that and then no one will bother you about it anymore."

"I don't know anything else," she repeated, panic rising in her voice, eyeing me with a combination of mistrust and disgust. Again, nothing new.

"I'll need to touch your arm. That's all."

Already, she was rutsching in her chair and inwardly chanting, _No fucking way_. Pam was on her, grasping her shoulders to pin her in place; she shoved her chair closer to the desk.

"Stop struggling and let her touch you," Pam said.

Ginger was beyond listening to any assurances that _this won't hurt._ So rather than prolonging her fear, I simply placed a hand on the underside of her pale forearm, which gave _me_ the creepy-crawlies.

"Tell me how you found the notes."

"Like I said a thousand times. They were right outside the front door. And that's all I have to say."

"Whoa," I said, listening hard, though every inch of me wanted to shove her away. Ginger gave off what I now called _Janella Vibes_, those post-apocalyptic brain waves, like there were no radio stations broadcasting in her head, or weak ones at best that skipped and faded out.

There was _a lot_ missing. When people think, they naturally associate one idea with the next; sometimes it seems random, and other times, I can follow the thread. But not Ginger. It was like she was delivering lines that had no meaning to her. Or delivering lines that weren't part of any complete play.

"Tell me what you were doing when you found them."

"I was going out to buy stamps."

"And did you see anybody?"

She started to speak, and then stopped, her confusion and terror surging. "It was…" Her mouth froze in one giant stutter as she struggled to get the words out. "I…"

She was close to screaming. It was all I could do to keep my hand on her. "She's trying to say something, but can't. And she's afraid, like someone's threatened her."

Eric shrugged.

I lobbed a softball question. "How about lunch, Ginger. What did you have for lunch yesterday?"

"Huh?" Dazed, her fear had died down considerably.

"What's your address?"

"None of your damn business!" she said, yanking her arm away from my touch. _Sixty-seven Cranston Street_.

I shook my head to indicate I didn't think I could get anything else. Also, I was in no mood to touch her again.

Eric signaled Ginger could leave with a flick of his hand. As she stood, she gave him a nod of her head, an awful lot like an abbreviated bow.

"What's happened to her?" I asked as soon as I heard the heavy clunk of her heeled boots leave the office. "It was like her thoughts were...emptied out."

Eric studied my face before he answered. "Maybe she was glamoured by a vampire. Or fell under a witch's spell."

"Huh." I mulled that one over for a bit.

And then Pam ushered in the next woman, who, I was relieved to see, appeared much less belligerent right from the get-go. She gave me a slight smile with full and pouty lips, which went a long way toward softening the harsh black vampire bar costume she was wearing. Where did they _get_ this stuff? Was there a special section in Work 'n Gear?

"Belinda, this woman has questions for you," Eric said.

"Do you know why you're here?" I asked as she sat next to me.

She nodded toward the stack of notes. "It's about those, right?"

"Mm-hmm."

"All right. Sure, those letters were there when I arrived for work."

"Oops. Just a minute. I need to touch your arm."

Belinda's eyes widened in interest, but without asking any other questions, she pushed up the sleeve of her costume. Her pale arm, like Ginger's, hadn't seen the sun in a long time. Did they all slather on sunscreen or never venture outdoors? As soon as I touched, I could see she was picturing the notes on the door mat, black and fashioned from woven strips of old tires. The corners of the notes had been tucked into the mat, presumably so they wouldn't blow away. The envelopes had gotten grungy as a result, and closely resembled the dirt marks on the ones here on the desk.

"Did you open the notes?"

"Oh, no." She was quick to respond. "They were addressed to Eric."

She'd been curious, though. Now, guessing they had something to do with the Amish girls, she was picturing them leaning against the wooden stockade fence and sitting in the grassy patch that extended from one of the adjacent private residences.

Eric shifted, as though he were about to ask a question, but I shook my head slightly as I placed my other hand on her, hoping to get a clearer view.

"Are those the girls you saw on the day you found the notes?" I asked.

Belinda's eyes widened again, and I realized that in my concentration, I'd made a direct reference to her mental picture. She lost focus for a moment, but then re-imagined them. Unfortunately, her mind's view was generic, at best; she didn't know the girls and had only a sketchy memory of them.

"Do you believe they're the same girls in the paper?" I pushed it closer to her.

That question made her nervous, but only because she was trying hard to clarify it for herself. She was worried about giving the wrong answer and that looking at the photo was getting mixed up with what she remembered.

"It's okay," I reassured her. "Take a deep breath and take your time."

"Okay," she nodded earnestly, shrugging her shoulders loose. Without even realizing it, I'd begun to stroke her forearm, which hadn't bothered Belinda. After a lifetime of struggling to subdue and escape my telepathy, I now had a lot to learn about harnessing its advantages.

"It's hard to say," she acknowledged.

"Did any of them talk to you?"

"No. They were talking to each other when I arrived, but when I got out of my car, they stopped." She replayed that memory in her mind as she said it, remembering how surprised she'd been to see them there. Of course she'd seen Amish folks before, but never anywhere near work.

"They just watched me, you know?"

"Mm-hmm." They'd made her self-conscious, the group of them gawking at her and whispering and giggling.

"So I picked up the notes and went right inside."

I caught Eric's eye.

"And then what did you do?" he prompted.

"Bobby wasn't there, so I slid the notes under your door. And then I went back to the employees' room to drop my stuff. That's where Ginger was."

"What did she say?"

"Aw, not much. She wasn't talking to me. She was mad at me, though I didn't do anything to her." Belinda figured Ginger had acted standoffish because she thought she always got the crap chores, like cleaning the employee shower stall, whereas Belinda got to take inventory and restock the shelves.

I nodded, keeping the details of their tiff unspoken.

"Did you say anything to her about the notes?" he asked.

"No."

"Did you talk about the Amish girls?"

Belinda shook her head. "She didn't want to talk."

"Was she there the whole time until opening?"

"No. She told me she was running out on an errand. I don't know exactly when she left or when she got back."

"And did you see anybody else?"

"No. Bobby wasn't here. Bruce was working from his home office. First vampire I saw was Long Shadow." She was reviewing her afternoon, piecing her memory of it together and how she'd spent a long time in the storage room, shifting boxes and stocking shelves. About a half hour before opening, she'd gotten changed, and when she'd come out, she'd run into…

"No, it was Pam," she said with satisfaction.

Pam, who'd been listening from the sofa, didn't react.

I thought to ask another question. "Does Ginger drive to work?"

"Usually," Belinda answered.

"Did you notice her car in the lot when you arrived?"

"Mine was the only one there, but it's not unusual for some of us to park out front because there's not enough space in the back."

"And did you notice any demonstrators?"

"I noticed them when I drove by, but once I got to the back lot, I couldn't see them, with the fence being there."

Curious about the FotS demonstrators, I wondered whether I could get Belinda to remember anything else. But being new to using my telepathy this way, I wanted to avoid planting any false memories.

"Can you tell me about them?"

She nodded, like she was getting the hang of it. "Like I said, I saw them only briefly because I was driving. There were…twenty, twenty-five of them with the usual signs. Consorting with the Devil, You're going to hell, etc.. And I didn't recognize anybody, but I didn't pay much attention to them."

"Okay." It was a blur in her mind, a composite image of the times she'd driven by the crowd on her way to work. I pulled my hand away. Belinda took this as a signal to stand, but Eric had one last question.

"Just a moment, Belinda." He looked at me, which was my cue to touch her again. Belinda was mildly…frightened, but that wasn't all. I wished he'd hurry and get on with it because her arm was turning into a hot potato—something I shouldn't be touching.

"One more question." Intent, Eric leaned forward on his desk.

Belinda had never gotten this attention from Eric. She'd heard the stories about his sexual prowess and wondered whether they were _all _true. She relaxed her mouth, which somehow made her pouty lips even pouty-er, though she wasn't aware of the effect. Her cheeks flushed.

"What vampire has Ginger been with recently?"

At that, a whoosh of disappointment flooded Belinda, and then just as quickly, departed. She pushed at the glasses on her nose, solely out of habit. "I don't know," she answered, relaxing in her chair. "Anyone. No one in particular. She's not choosy."

She wondered what trouble Ginger had gotten herself into and wasn't surprised. She was itching to rejoin the crowd and claim her tables. She thought the bartender filling in for Long Shadow tonight, Chow, was an intriguing addition.

As Eric told her she could leave, I checked on the other vampires in the room. Pam's expression conveyed indifference, as though we'd just been discussing precipitation trends over the past ten years. Long Shadow looked downright hungry as he watched Belinda stand. _Was he never satisfied?_

Somebody ought to show her some appreciation. At the very least, she was losing out on tips. "Thank you, Belinda," I said. The room turned silent, so silent, I became conscious of the sound of my own breathing. I tried not to shift too much in my seat.

Eric finally spoke, sounding bored. "Whoever got to Ginger didn't bother with Belinda." He was stating the obvious, opening discussion.

"Belinda doesn't seem to know anything concerning," Pam responded, going along with the discussion. "Ginger might have seen something in the front lot or across the street, as she was leaving on her errand."

"During the day," Long Shadow pointed out, meaning a vampire couldn't have been with her then.

I tried to imagine what that 'something' might be. It had to have been something big if someone had taken such trouble to make her forget. But what in the world could have happened out in the open, in broad daylight?

"All right," I said, keeping up my end of the conversation. "Could Ginger have seen someone supplying the kids with vampire blood?" I thought this possibility, Option A, was the least likely, and couldn't imagine the kids drinking the stuff.

"Or could she have witnessed a witch putting a spell on the kids?" I had a hard time saying Option B too, since I knew nothing about witches and spells. And then I added, "Out in the open, across from all of those FotS demonstrators?"

"They could have a witch in their employ," Pam pointed out.

I glanced at Long Shadow and didn't need to read his mind to know what he was thinking.

But something else stuck in my craw. I wasn't sure where I was headed, but since we were talking possibilities, I decided to roll with it. "Belinda said Ginger was in a bad mood _before_ she left. Maybe it's like Belinda said, that they were having a work squabble. No big deal, right? But Belinda said Ginger wasn't talking to her at all. It makes me wonder whether something else was going on to make Ginger upset."

"Such as?" Eric said coolly.

"Well, I don't know. I couldn't pick up anything out of her or Belinda's thoughts. But it could have been anything—related to the Amish kids or not. And whoever doesn't want her to remember…whatever, did a hatchet job on her, wiping out nearly everything from that afternoon."

"Collateral damage. That's an interesting idea."

I almost snorted. _Collateral damage _was an _interesting_ description of the vast barren space in Ginger's head. "Eric, it's like she's missing a big, honking chunk of her brain. Heck, she couldn't even remember what she'd had for lunch."

But he'd already fallen silent. He wasn't in down time, but he wasn't moving or saying anything either. As I met the fixed expression on his face, suddenly I was twisting in darkness, brushing against papery wings, and scuttling legs, and slithering bodies. I pulled back in one clenching moment, but by then, I knew: Eric had at least suspected something else besides Amish fangirls was afoul here, and had called me in to see if I'd happen to turn up anything else in the process, like using me to kill two birds with one stone. How I knew that, I didn't even want to consider. And now was definitely not the time.

"Well," I said, aiming for a light tone, "If any of your day staff notices the Amish kids hanging out near your business again, I can have a listen if I'm not working."

I didn't like the idea of being "on call," but it might be the most expedient way to solve Eric's Amish PR troubles and keep me out of his far-flung affairs. If that were even possible. Again, I wasn't going there now.

"Pam. Long Shadow," Eric said. They got up without another word and simply left. Being alone with Eric was more intimidating than being with all three of them.

He chose his words carefully. "That was…revealing."

Revealing? On one level, I had to agree, though on the whole, I thought this evening had opened more questions than it had resolved.

"I'd like to see more," he added, his clear blue eyes, sharpened by age, fixed on mine. I swallowed hard, unsure what we were talking about anymore. I thought about the fantasies that had flickered through Belinda's mind. I thought about the Amish fangirl notes. I wondered which of those positions was even possible.

I stood and began to gather my purse and coat, signaling my readiness to leave, I hoped. "I'd like to know what happened too," I tried to say in a light tone again. Eric had none of it.

"Are you still with Bill?"

"Oh, yes," I nodded vigorously, feeling like a bobble head doll.

"You have grown fond of him quickly."

Quickly? I fumbled with my purse, searching for my car keys. Of course Eric knew where Bill had lived and could easily surmise I'd known him in his human life.

"We've had our ties," I said, unwilling to give up anything personal about Bill. _Dammit, how did keys always get buried in my clean purse? _

"And you enjoy being secret with him?"

I thought about what Eric was asking. "I like to do what I can to help him," I hedged. Looking up from my purse—_found them!_—I saw his face had relaxed as though at any moment it might commit to a smile. He stood, unfurling from his chair, and pressed, not with his body, but with the flow of his mind around mine.

"You know that doesn't work on me."

There it was—the upturn of his smile. He stepped closer, around the corner of his desk.

Loose and relaxed, his thumbs tucked in his jean pockets—emphasizing the tightness—he took another step. He'd only have to reach out a little, and his hand would be on my waist. I gave myself a little mental kick in the butt for having such thoughts—_really, Sookie_—only to look up and see his eyes had lit up with amusement, like blown embers.

"I'm with Bill. And no matter what you try with your mind whammy, I'm not going with you."

"_Going_ with me?" he said with great exaggeration. "_Whose_ idea is this?"

_Damn sexed-up vampire blood. _In a huff, I zipped my purse and turned to leave. "Goodnight, Eric."

He laughed. "We'll be in touch_,_ Sookie."

I didn't look back, giving him a wave over my shoulder and picking up my pace until I hit the crowd, still writhing. Sheez. I shook myself. Long Shadow had returned to the bar with Chow. I said goodbye to Pam, who was circulating near the souvenir counter. Pam at least acknowledged me. "It's been fun, Sookie," she said with amusement.

I didn't notice much about my walk across the parking lot, but by the time I got in my car and locked my doors, I was so glad to be out of the bar, I gripped the steering wheel like it were home base. _Safe! Olly, olly oxenfree! _

I got the defogger going with a bit of heat and pushed on the radio. Local gal Taylor Swift was belting out another breakup song. I hit the scan button once, landing on a shouted announcement for _Regional Championship Wrestling!_ My windshield clear, I put my car in reverse.

"Now through November, see the Genie that's been let out of his bottle!" the radio blared.

I turned my head to back out. Filling my side window was the terrifying face of Long Shadow.


	24. Injuries and Threats, Old and New

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

**A/N: **This chapter contains some violence, sexual molestation, and references to childhood sexual abuse.

* * *

><p><strong>Injuries and Threats, Old and New<strong>

Long Shadow was holding a black cloth bundle and peering at me, his face pocked by shadows from security lights. His dark, sleek hair glinted in the orange glow. I turned down the radio volume to avoid opening the window, nothing more than a flimsy buffer. I had a horn, too, I reminded myself, and a heavy piece of machinery.

"You forgot this," Long Shadow said, unfolding a jacket.

"No." I shook my head. "I got mine."

His face didn't bother registering any surprise as he glanced at the red jacket on the passenger seat. "I see yours is right there," he said deliberately.

"Must be someone else's. But thanks for asking." I flashed one of my brightest smiles.

He didn't shift or budge, his hunched posture wedged between my car and the one next to us. "Better to check. Be a shame if you had to come back."

There was no mistaking the threat in the flinty tone of his voice—no Pollyanna, he—but Long Shadow capped it off by attempting to impose his will on mine. With his mind powers poking at me, I didn't know whether to bark like a dog or flap my arms like a chicken, so I went for the obvious. "No, I sure wouldn't want to have to come back," I said flatly, forcing myself to relax into something pliable, which was a stretch.

He laughed, a singular wheeze emanating from his chest. From inside the car, it sounded like someone was squeegeeing my windshield. Then he patted my hood, the sharp rap startling and jarring. "You best get going. Parking lot's not a safe place."

Without hesitation, I backed out, all the while watching to see whether Long Shadow stayed put. As I pulled out of the lot, I didn't bother waving goodbye.

I hated that parking lot at Fangtasia. Front. Back. The whole damn thing. And now I had a new worry to add to my list: If Long Shadow had attacked, how would I have survived? Would I have been able to get away in my car? Run over him? I tried to imagine it. Grisly moments like the _bump-bump _of Long Shadow under my tires were racking up in my life, but I realized if push had come to shove, I would have done anything to escape him, including mowing him down with my car. Strangely enough, that thought bolstered my spirits: I was done being threatened by that asshole, and in no mood to get into a moral debate with myself.

I was glad to be alive.

The ride home passed quickly, and I didn't remember much of it. Songs on the radio blended from one to the next as background noise. I made a few vague plans with myself for my upcoming day off, though none of them took root as anything potentially real or tangible. Tired, my brain just wasn't getting any traction. Bill, of course, would want to know all about the evening, and in my current mood, I wished he'd give me a pass to simply go to bed with the promise of updating him the next evening.

Nah, he probably wouldn't.

But after parking my car, I decided to stop by the barn first and check whether Bobbi had touched her bowl, which I'd filled to the brim with the hope that she'd come back.

Nope. Stupid, wishful thinking.

Turning toward the house, I got as far as our fallen tree trunk when strong arms gripped me from behind, pinning me.

"Knock it off!" I blurted out. Judas_, _I'd told him before how much I hated being grabbed like this.

But these weren't Bill's arms.

"Such spunk for a fragile little human chick," the female voice said. "How did our stuffed shirt Bill find the likes of you?"

Could it be…

"Diane?" I sputtered.

"You sound surprised," she said in an exaggerated tone of disbelief. "You don't like surprises?"

When I didn't answer right away—apparently it wasn't just a rhetorical question—she shook me.

"No," I said begrudgingly, struggling against her. She'd wrapped me in a straightjacket hug with so much force, there was no budging. Sinewy, the only soft and giving thing about Diane was her Lycra clothing slipping against my back.

"Too bad for you, then." She groped my breast. "Too, too bad," she repeated, in a sing-song voice. "And too bad for those stupid vigilantes. Won't they be surprised?" She shook me again.

"Uh-huh," I managed, trying to keep my fear in check and my wits about me.

As she brought her face, with its smooth, dark skin, close to mine, her hair brushed against my neck in a tickling way that was almost painful. "Are you simple?"

"Fuck off!"

"Oooh!" she squealed, dancing against me. It was more than a dance, though, the way she was shifting her hips and rubbing her breasts against me. Lycra doesn't leave much to the imagination.

"You and I have _so much _to chat about. How's our Bill been?"

"Fine." The less I could say about him, the better, but one-word answers weren't going to cut it. "He's busy studying for his GED."

"What a _good_ modern vampire." Diane was a master at hamming it up. "He surprised us when he left, though. One day he was in Blue Ball, and the next—_poof_—gone without so much as a goodbye." Here, she feigned a sniffle. "What else, chickie?"

I shrugged, a difficult movement in her vice grip. "He spends time with me."

"Awww. So sweet." Her tone changed as she sniggered. "I know what he likes best."

_Not anymore, bitch. _I bit back my remark, which maybe was a mistake with Diane. She grabbed my ponytail and yanked, exposing my neck. "You belong to Bill?"

"Yes," I said with a quaver, unsure how all of this belonging was helping now. _Where was he? Couldn't he hear us? _I swallowed, felt the hard ripple down my stretched throat. Diane didn't miss it; she squealed in delight, running the tip of her tongue from the base of my neck to my chin.

"I think…" she paused before going in for another lick. She shook her head. "You're not his type. And you smile funny."

Suddenly, she went for my throat, scraping her fangs hard enough to leave red marks. I heard the whimper come out of me and hated her for it.

"Uuuh," she mocked, pulling back, scrutinizing my face as though counting the pores. "What _is _it with you?...No, wait!...Let me guess!" Again with the drama. "I loooove surprises, _unlike some people around here." _

Diane wriggled with all kinds of excitement; her grip on me tightened, one arm pinning my hands and arms to my body, the other roaming beneath my waistband as she ground against me. She was only growing more eager, and there wouldn't ever be enough that I could give her—details about Bill, sex, blood, humiliation. She wouldn't stop there.

I felt sick. And mad. Mad for me. Mad for the woman she'd dumped on the road. I could stand here and take…a lot, but not being murdered and tossed away like trash_._

Taller than me, she leaned again toward my neck. I prayed to God Bill's blood was as effective as he'd promised. And then I tilted my head forward and pushed backward, aiming for her nose. I must have hit my target, because she cursed, and in that moment, I stomped my foot atop hers, with enough force to wrench out of her grasp.

Of course she was on me right away, furious. I yanked at the chain around my neck as she knocked me backwards. With nothing to break the impact, I fell hard, but still, as she pounced, I managed to throw my arm out and jam silver in her face.

She clawed at herself, snarling, and lunged for my neck in a rage. I screamed. In only a flash, her full weight was on me, her fangs at my neck, tearing. It all fell together—the blinding pain mixed with panicked disbelief, and the blood, the dreadful wetness soaking my neck and shoulders. My scream squeezed all the way to its very end. As I gasped for air, blood dripped into my mouth, and I gagged. _Not like this. _I didn't want to die like this. I pushed at Diane's shoulders.

And then hands were grabbing my armpits and pulling me out from underneath her. As I scrabbled with my feet to help, great big globs of her pulled with me. She had a stick jammed into her back. Probably birch, I noted, as though it mattered.

"Bill?!" His face had appeared in mine.

I reached up to my neck.

"Are you harmed?" His eyes roamed.

I shook my head as I swiped at the blood. _Her blood. _And then I shook my head some more, trying to shake out the images, separating the draining from the parking lot—Long Shadow bearing down on Camo Girl and me—from the current attack. _I was okay._ Not bitten.

"What the hell did _I_ ever do to _her_?" I asked, struggling to make sense.

I took another look around me. Diane was face down, at my feet. I watched in shock as her body rotted in front of us, in quick time. Her form collapsed into a pile of gunk, which began to vanish in ash and smoke.

"Lieber Gott."

There was no mistaking that she was definitely dead, though I'd never seen a vampire meet her final death. "Did you do that?" I asked, the events still a blur.

"She had you" Bill said, somewhat blankly, in a tone that drew my sharp attention. He looked like he'd been through the wringer himself: his neat and tidy clothes torn and disheveled, his hair strobbly. A few nasty welts across his face were mending, but his dark, vacant eyes concerned me most. He shifted closer.

"Stop it right there, mister."

He kept coming, as though on autopilot, and grasped the back of my neck, and pulled while he started licking.

"Bill!" I insisted. The scares were just piling up tonight.

"Just a little," he murmured, sucking on a part of my ear that must have been particularly tasty. His grip on the back of my head tightened as he turned it like I was a puppet.

"No!" I cried, grasping for his ears and yanking.

He pulled away, still dazed and teetering. I waited and watched for signs of life, mindful of him as well as our surroundings. No crickets. No breeze. Here and there, a crackle in the underbrush—a possum or a raccoon—alerted me. Gradually, Bill became more aware too. The vacant glaze in his eyes receded. His posture relaxed. He brushed the hair out of his face and straightened his sleeve, torn and twisted. And when he finally spoke, he had a lot to say in his cool and collected voice.

"She caught me off guard outside the house. I had just gotten off the phone with Eric and was on my way uphill to meet you. She couldn't have been there long. I think I might have surprised her as much as she surprised me. Soon as I stepped off the porch, she sprung a silver net on me and had me trapped, but then she heard you arriving and left me there. She didn't realize she hadn't secured me well and I'd be able to work an arm free. And then I was able to pull the chain off using a fallen branch. I knew she had you. I knew I had to hurry."

"And you did. You got here in time. I'm glad we're both safe now." I hoped in my lingering shock I was adequately expressing my gratitude; somehow, saying, "Thanks for staking your old buddy Diane," didn't sound appropriately gracious.

He stood and offered a hand to me; if it wasn't my imagination, I popped up with an extra jolt of energy.

Wet and moldy, I needed a shower something fierce. Hair was hanging in my face, and bits of dried leaves were clinging to my shirt. Meanwhile, the pile of goo that was once Diane was still smoking at our feet. "What do we do…"

"Leave it," he said, surprising me with his terseness. At the rate she was disappearing, she wouldn't be there much longer. I walked away from her with a vague image of myself leaving a dead body on my lawn while holding hands with her murderer. Or maybe he was the one who'd helped rescue me. She'd tried to kill me after all. Hadn't she deserved to die? Maybe I wasn't so sure about running down Long Shadow after all. My head felt stuffed with cotton, and all of these thoughts sounded muted and distant in the muffled space.

I focused on moving forward, stepping in the direction of my house, where I'd have running hot water and clean clothes and lights, basic comforts that captured my attention. Once inside, I headed straight for the fridge to grab the synthetic blood. I heated a bottle, handed it to him, and then got another one warming. I put fresh towels and a spare set of Jason's clothes on my bed.

When I came out of the shower, he was still sitting where I'd left him, his hands wrapped around a bottle of blood. His complexion had warmed up, and the cuts on his face had healed without a trace of scarring. I heated a mug of water for tea and joined him with Gran's jar of spoons and the sugar bowl.

"I think that's sufficiently stirred," Bill said.

"Oh." I stopped myself from clinking my spoon; I set it aside, on the saucer with the tea bag. Now I was sorely tempted to take a deliberate slurp, but that would have been simply petty. I wasn't thirsty for it anyway; more than anything, I wanted to clasp it in my hands.

"Liam and Malcolm?" I asked.

"I don't know. Diane told me she'd spent her daytime rest with Harlan when their house in Blue Ball had been burned. I don't even know if _she_ knows what happened to them."

There were other parts of the evening we needed to discuss, too. I started by filling him in on the telepathy business; Eric hadn't told him much other than I'd read two of his employees and translated notes.

And then there were the parking lot shenanigans. "Long Shadow followed me out to my car," I began.

That made Bill quirk a brow.

I relayed to him the brief exchange we'd had with his barely veiled threats. That part of my evening seemed so much less scary since I'd been attacked by Diane, which was an observation I'd have to reflect on later.

"Stupid," he said, when I was finished.

I set my mug down with a thunk, surprised he'd been so forthright. "No kidding?"

"Vampires can be just as stupid as humans."

"Huh," I mused, strangely relieved Bill had confirmed what I'd suspected. "So he _has_ tipped his hand, worried that I might know or learn something incriminating."

"Ja, now that you've gotten a peek into the minds of two of Eric's employees. And if we tell Eric, he'll call you back, use you to figure out what Long Shadow is hiding."

"But if we don't tell him…" I shuddered to think how fortunate I was that Long Shadow hadn't simply killed me. This time.

Bill pushed his point. "Sookie, Eric won't use this threat as any reason to treat you with kid gloves. He'll simply want to know." He paused and seemed to be considering. "It's interesting."

_Interesting?_ Is that what he called this tangled mess?

He must have realized his misstep. "You did well tonight," he said, opening up his hands to invite mine. I stretched across the table; limber, I moved with an unstrained ease I hadn't expected after having been knocked around by Diane. After a few moments, he let go and stood. "I'll take you up on that shower now."

I followed him to retrieve his dirty clothes and started a load of laundry. Mine were so disgusting and filthy that I decided to throw them out. At the last minute, I remembered to first pluck the distelfink from my jeans pocket. Turning the carving in my palm, I couldn't decide whether it had brought me bad luck—since not one, but two vampires had threatened my life tonight—or good luck since I'd survived. Mostly, I just liked holding it in my hands.

Setting it on my dresser, I began to laugh, a little snort that grew into a crazy, raucous laugh.

"Sweetheart?" Bill called from the shower, which made me laugh some more. I grabbed for a crossword puzzle and climbed into bed with the full intent of settling and falling asleep within moments.

I was still awake, ten minutes later, when Bill joined me, casting me a questioning glance.

"What's a four-letter word meaning _like pocketed pool balls?_" I asked. I still had hopes that my night was almost closed, but Bill clearly had something else on his mind.

"Did I ever tell you about Sarah's young man?" he asked.

"You mean her husband?"

"No, the man she dated when she was much younger."

I shook my head. "I don't believe so." _S-u-n-k _I penned in.

"His name was Michael Miller. Lived a couple farms over from the Fenstermacher's place."

"No, definitely not."

"He took a liking to Sarah. Spent over a year courting her. Things seemed to be going well, though Sarah seemed to grow cool on him. It was hard to tell. Courtship is private among Amish folks. She put up with the normal teasing, of course, from friends and family. But gradually it became clear they weren't going to work out. When they parted ways, Sarah had little to say about him, which caused a bit of tension in the family; I believe Caroline thought she was being too choosy."

"Michael moved away, picked up with his extended family to start a new settlement in Colorado. Sarah turned down a few more young men attracted to her before interest waned. She settled into life as an unmarried woman, living with Caroline and me. It wasn't until years later that Sarah confided in me what had happened."

"Turned out Sarah had had her concerns about Michael. He'd gotten real rigid with her, admonishing her if she didn't pin her Kapp on right or if he thought she was acting proud. At the time, the Bishop was said to have taken a firm line on marital conflict. She'd heard a few stories—stories about one of the other farmers getting a little rough with his wife. 'Working it out' was the Bishop's push. Separation was unheard of."

I wondered why Bill was telling me this story tonight. I'd already set the crossword puzzle aside, saddened that Sarah had faced that pressure. Suddenly her moving to a different community had a whole new meaning. "The underbelly of Amish life," I said. "It sounds like she was wise to pull out."

"Yes. She could have gotten drawn into something ugly. And it would have been considered her duty to stay and resolve their differences together. For years, it was speculated that one of the farmers in a neighboring district took too firm a hand with his children. Children are special gifts—you know, of course, that there's no birth control—but spanking is allowed. Every now and then, someone pushes that line a little hard. But the community—the _Amish_ community—is meant to deal with that."

We were verging on uncomfortable territory for me. Gran had saved me from the worst threat of my childhood, plain and simple, by getting rid of the menace without hesitation. I grabbed for the elastic tie on my wrist and pulled at my hair, still wet.

"What's wrong?" Bill prodded.

My hands worked on smoothing my ponytail. "It must have been hard for Sarah to face all the speculation and gossip afterward, especially knowing that if she had married him and things had gotten worse, she wouldn't have had the support to outright leave him."

"Sookie."

Stupidly, I smiled.

"You are telling me stories."

I couldn't help myself. Smiling was the old nervous reaction, ingrained in the mind of a child by the don't-tell admonition coupled with the threat of bad things to come. Knowing it was wrong now, and tired from my long night, I started to cry. It was like trying to inhale and exhale at once. I'm sure I looked crazy, too, as I worked on tugging my hair.

Bill sat up, clear in his intent to "get to the bottom of this."

I felt trapped and cornered. The story of Uncle Bartlett wasn't one I liked to march out for company conversation, but now that I'd reacted so strangely, I had to explain somehow. Tears were coming even harder, yet still I was trying to patch it with a smile.

"I _am _sad. I _am _sad about Sarah," I started. There was simply no good way to begin.

"Sookie, you are worrying me."

Another round of grinning sobs took over. After a night of threats and injury, it was all coming out at once, mixed-up and confused, when I'd rather have packed it away.

"You touched on a nerve," I tried, knowing it was the wrong thing as soon as I said it.

"Nerve? What nerve?"

I shook my head. "No. No, listen to me." I sucked in a jagged breath and drew on Sarah's example of standing her ground; this conversation needed to end here, right now. "It's been a long night, and I'm tired, and that makes me extra sad for Sarah. I hope she's happy now."

Though it wasn't the whole truth, it had to be enough for now. My scalp ached with tightness.

Bill looked uncertain, downright deflated for someone who only moments earlier had been so insistent. "I hope she's happy too."

We'd come full circle, back to the point at which Bill had first approached me in September, to ask me to help Sarah. "We're doing the right thing." Maybe I said it as much for myself as I did for him.

He settled uneasily next to me, folding his hands across his chest, and left it at that.

For the time being, anyway.


	25. Summary & News and the Amish Grapevine

**A/N:** I'm sorry about the very long delay in updating. I've been holding onto this chapter to take a breather and double check that all of my ducks are lined up before I post the ending section. (See, I can't even blame it on PMR.) ;) And thanks to PMR's recently popping her head up, I've included here a summary of chapters 1-24 as a reminder of all that has passed. Fair warning: the summary is long. If you want to skip it, scroll down to the following line. Right…just keep scrolling.

Thanks to new readers/followers, as well as people who have been along on this buggy ride from the beginning. I'm sticking with this story because I like thinking about this northern twist on the SVM series. (And as it turns out, the Amish and vampires have a few things in common.) I can't promise rapid updates, but in upcoming chapters, I will include summaries of the previous chapter. At this point, six more chapters ought to take us to the end. Four of those are written in various stages; the other two are in my head. Thanks again! ;)

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><p><strong>Summary Chapters 1 - 24<strong>

Sookie Stackhouse, telepath, goes to live on her Gran's farm in Bird-in-Hand with her brother Jason at age 7 after her parents are killed in a flood. Surrounded by Amish farmers, Sookie comes to know the language and customs of a community very different from her own. Feeling pent-up in the rural setting, she looks to the Amish for guidance, for a way to accept the inevitable limitations she experiences as a telepath. Lancaster County, she figures, will be her home for good as she settles into her life as a barmaid at the Virginville Tavern. Even when the vampires come out of the closet, Sookie's path stays on its regular course.

And then one evening, Sookie is surprised to find herself face-to-face with a vampire, none other than her former Amish neighbor Bill Compton, who died years earlier. He's been granted permission to return to his home territory—with the understanding that he will stay out of the public eye—and asks for Sookie's help commissioning a quilt from his sister Sarah. Sarah has married since Bill's human death and lives in the isolated town of Honey Creek, many of whose inhabitants suffer from a genetic condition. Without health care, money is tight for Sarah and her new family.

Sookie readily offers to help, understanding fully she must keep his existence a secret, even from Gran. She goes to the farmer's market, picks up some slippery elm (an herbal remedy) for Gran's heartburn, and while there, stops by Sarah's stand to commission the quilt. Sarah has news: an abundance of celery has been planted on Bill's family's farm, which everyone has taken to mean that Bill's oldest son Tom will soon be married. While they are chatting, one tall, blond, and fangy vampire shows up; it's a strange sighting, for sure, among the typical shoppers of the farmer's market. His presence frightens Sarah and reminds her of the Hexenmeisters, a gang of Amish youth she heard had been planning to visit Fangtasia, the vampire bar in Intercourse.

Upon hearing the news of Sarah and his son Tom, Bill is happy. He's worried, however, about the presence of the other vampire. She's forced to reveal to Bill that she's a telepath, and along the way, agrees to go to Fangtasia to help head off any trouble the Hexenmeisters might encounter there.

Sookie struggles to keep her telepathy under wraps at Fangtasia as she helps the bartender, Long Shadow, bounce a few underage Hexenmeisters—all with excellent fake IDs. The evening goes well until Sookie "hears" a commotion in the men's bathroom as she is dancing with Fangtasia's owner, Eric, the very same vampire she'd seen at the farmer's market. She narrowly helps avert a fight between an Amish teen and an unduly jealous fangbanger. And then as she is waiting with Bill in Eric's office, she picks up evidence of more Amish kids in trouble outside at the dumpster. Eric sends Long Shadow, who stumbles upon a drainer and gets trapped by a silver net. Hearing the struggle, Sookie realizes she's accidentally sent him to the wrong place. She saves him and tries to get the drainer to run, but Long Shadow retaliates. Sookie survives as Bill pulls her out of harm's way, but must stand by as the drainer is murdered by Long Shadow. And then she notices that one lingering Hexenmeister has witnessed the whole attack from the bathroom window; as a result, she must reveal her telepathy to the vampires of Fangtasia. Eric has Pam glamour the witness to forget about the murder, but Sookie can't shake his horrifying mental images and moralistic commentary.

The very next day at work, Sookie finds no reprieve from tensions as a hostage situation unfolds at a local Amish farmhouse. By the end of the day, the hostage taker, a taxi driver named Jim Collins, kills himself, five women and children, and injures six more. The region is shocked by the violence against a peaceful group of people, and draws attention from the rest of the world_. _One of the victims, Sadie Dietrich, offered herself up as his first victim. Equally shocking, the Amish community immediately and publicly forgives Jim Collins for his horrific crime.

Bill puts the Amish response into context for Sookie, describing to her the _Martyr's Mirror_, a key text referred to by the Amish. The book details the deaths of over 800 martyrs and espouses forgiveness and non-resistance. As they are talking, Bill suddenly shoves Sookie to the ground to protect her as a crashing noise comes from the direction of the house. He goes to look for the cause, and disappears as Gran calls out from the front door. Sookie jumps up to help her. Together, they discover the ceiling of the smokehouse has collapsed under the weight many years of stashed walnuts by squirrels. After all of the preceding heavy events, it's a relief, but Sookie feels the increasing burden of hiding her goings-on from Gran. What's more, she's been increasingly concerned about Gran's health—her expansive mood, strange bouts of energy followed by exhaustion, and heartburn.

Sam helps ease the tension by inviting Sookie to try out Laurel Run, the new mega smorgasbord and shopping complex that has recently opened. Together, they have a nice evening sampling the menu, but as she's returning to the bar that night to pick up her paycheck, a vampire named Harlen appears, asking Sookie where Bill is and to relay the message that he stopped by to see him.

Regarding the visit, Sookie begins to worry about a few things: that Harlen knew of the connection between her and Bill, that he learned details about her such as her name and place of work, that Bill might be missing, and that he might have more than a friendly relationship with Bill. That's not all Sookie finds on her plate. A photograph of one fangy Eric, smiling at an Amish woman—Bill's sister, Sarah—is published in the paper. In fact, it's from the evening Sookie first met Sarah at the farmer's market.

The timing is terrible. A shocked public looking for an explanation for the violence at the Amish farmhouse finds easy answers by pointing the finger at vampires. The evidence is weak at best: Jim Collins apparently had a well-known hatred of vampires ever since his wife left him, just after vampires came out of the closet. But already one group, the Fellowship of the Sun, has seized on the connection, making full use of the hordes of reporters and television crews still hanging around Amish country. Sookie and Gran run into them—the FotS and news people—at the firehouse, where Gran goes to help sort through the overwhelming quantity of supportive letters and donations being delivered to the Amish. "The earth was made for God's creatures," the FotS signs read, along with "Devil's minions." When a reporter corners Gran for her reaction to the allegation that vampires caused Jim Collins to go on his shooting rampage, Gran responds with a shrill, "Ach! It's Poppycock!"

Sookie hustles Gran inside the firehouse, where she is relieved to find a group of Gran's cronies set up to sort the mail. She leaves her there to run to the Bird-in-Hand-Bugle for her, to place an ad for the Gardener's Guild upcoming holiday home tour. But winding through the country roads, Sookie's thoughts loosen as she remembers Gran's saying: "If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults." She's flooded by her memories of the events from the parking lot of Fangtasia and the Hexenmeister's judgment of the whole scene, and can't help but question her actions. Right or wrong, she did what she needed to to stay alive—unlike Sadie Dietrich. She shelves her concerns on the matter for the time being.

At the newspaper office, an unfriendly woman she nicknames Copper provides her with the necessary advertising forms. Before she leaves, Sookie takes a moment to admire the Amish country photographs on the wall, including the very one of Eric at the farmer's market. In the meantime, an intense argument breaks out elsewhere in the office, and Errol Clayton, manager and reporter, comes storming into the reception area. Sookie waits for him to drive away before she exits to the parking lot, where she finds a stray cat.

Sookie names the cat Bobbi and takes her home, stopping first for kibble at the PennSupreme. She's startled to find a "Missing" poster of Maudette Pickens buried on the bulletin board, here at her old place of work, and wonders what happened to her. She uncovers the flyer and adds it to the top of the pile.

Later that day at the tavern, Sookie is shocked to learn that the clip of Gran's catchy "Ach! It's poppycock!" has gotten a lot of play in the news. Many are expanding on her words and calling her a vampire sympathizer, a harsh criticism in the context of the accusations being aimed at vampires. Sam, who seems to have knowledge of the FotS from friends in Texas, warns Sookie to be very careful of them. Gran, on the other hand, seems unfazed by her brush with celebrity and moreover, has taken a shine to Bobbi. As she's chatting with Sookie about her volunteer work and the Amish massacre, she says, "Every woman worth her salt does what she has to." Sookie is left still wondering what to make of Sadie Dietrich's hardcore turn-the-other-cheek stance.

That evening, Bill returns to Sookie's window. When she angrily tells him Harlen's message, Bill acknowledges it's a warning that others may know of his presence in Bird-in-Hand. Sookie very pointedly reminds him that she's been diligently keeping his secret for him. Bill responds by indicating he's worked hard to keep her safe and offers her a chance to back out of her exchanges with him and his sister. But Sookie doesn't like the idea of being alone again-she's very much comforted by Bill's quiet mind-and presses him to acknowledge whether their interactions are about more than helping his sister Sarah. Bill assures her he is interested in no one else, such as Harlen, and takes her downhill, through the old orchard, to the abandoned farmhouse where he's been staying. They have a romantic evening, playing Scrabble, talking of his Amish days, and finally, sharing a passionate kiss or two.

Sookie goes to work the next day, ecstatic to feel like a member of "the club." It doesn't take long, however, for her mood to deflate. She has trouble controlling her telepathy on a day when everyone seems to have an opinion about her and Gran. Even Sam acts strangely toward her. And then near the end of the shift, Janella Lennox, a former server from the tavern comes in. She's aged so much that Sookie barely recognizes her. More frightening is the blank space in her head. Janella boasts that she's been with a vampire and presses Sookie to say whether she'd ever dated a vampire—surely someone as freaky as her would have been game. When Janella gets ruder still, Sam boots her out of the bar. And then to cap off her rotten day, Sookie discovers a rumor has been floating that she is pregnant with Sam's baby and has been asking him for money to pay for an abortion.

At home, Sookie sees that her Gran has been on another tear in the kitchen, preparing food for the crew working on the demolition of the massacre site late that evening. It's scheduled for late at night to try to escape the media's ever watchful eye. Gran has crashed in bed, so it's up to Sookie to drive the contributions to the volunteers. Later after she returns home, she finds another story has broken. This time, someone has set off fireworks at the site, sparking a fire that destroys the home and draws news crews.

Before she can learn more, Bill arrives and suggests they go for a walk through the orchard. Suddenly, they meet up with Liam, Malcolm, and Diane, three boisterous and dangerous vampires, toting Janella Lennox and an injured man, Jerry . It's clear that they caused the fire. Sookie tries to help Jerry, but he refuses, throwing his lot in with the vampires. The Blue Ball vampire trio is extremely curious about Sookie, to the point that Bill claims her as his own. This intrigues them more, and they leave with the intent of making it a game to discover whatever secrets Bill and Sookie are hiding.

The interaction shakes Sookie, given Bill's obvious connections with the trio. It doesn't seem possible from the Bill she thought she knew well, the one who once lived as her Amish neighbor. As Bill explains to her, some vampires are happy with the old ways and are not especially interested in mainstreaming with humans and try to cause trouble for the rest of the vampires. "You're not like them," she tells Bill. In response, he acknowledges that he survives by drinking blood, and that there's a part of him that enjoys the thrill of the hunt.

Sookie leaves Bill that night with the understanding that she'll call him after she's had time to think. She's determined to have an ordinary day off. She runs errands, including stopping by Sarah's store to help pick out fabric. Progress on the quilt will be delayed, in part because Sarah has a lot of work to complete. While she's there, another customer, an annoyingly ingratiating woman, seems to make Sarah ill-at-ease.

Sookie returns home to pick up Gran to take her to the farmer's market. The market is a mob scene, packed with tourists and gawkers drawn to Amish life as well as news vans and FotS protestors. But Gran is determined to stay in spite of the crowd, and Sookie worriedly agrees to drop her off and meet her at the lunch counter. After some anxious moments wending through the crowded aisles, Sookie finally finds Gran, and they manage to have a pleasant meal together followed by a stop at the garden center.

Sookie leaves Gran with her plants to get her car. But she gets stuck in a line of cars at a standstill. There's been an accident involving a mule hauling a cartload of pumpkins. Frightened by the yellow strip protecting the media cables stretching across the road, the animal first refused to budge and then bolted, knocking down a bystander. It's Gran. She's killed instantly.

Aside from losing her beloved grandmother, Sookie has to face the viral images of Gran's death circulating on the internet, replayed in the minds of those around her. Nearly everyone can't get enough of the so-called vampire-loving poppycocking Granny, including the FotS, who see it as a sign of God's judgment on those who accept vampires. But at the funeral, Gran's friends prove themselves stalwarts. Sookie finds plenty of her own friends showing their support too, including, Caroline Yokum, Bill's ex-wife, and her second husband John. Afterward, Sam spends time with Sookie, touring the old orchard and clearing out Gran's garden for the season. When he leaves, Sookie feels terribly alone until Bill arrives. Looking for comfort in each other, they have sex.

In the week following the funeral, Sookie works to find her stride without Gran. Arlene comes to help clear out Gran's room. On another day, she clears the smokehouse of walnuts, unearthing some wood carvings of birds. One is a distelfink that Sookie likes to carry in her pocket. When she takes a box of items to Maxine Fortenberry several days later, she does something she hasn't done in a while: she answers Maxine's thoughts. Sookie is thoroughly shaken, realizing how quickly she's fallen out of practice with her telepathy. She takes charge right away, calling Sam to put her back on the work schedule and taking a trip to WalMart for practice with her blocking. Once there, she comes up with a plan to move herself into Gran's room, and treats herself to new bedroom accessories.

Sookie settles back into work well enough, though she faces plenty of unkind thoughts toward her Gran. It seems the FotS has gained traction, and vampires face ongoing scrutiny. The Blue Ball vampire trio only adds to the bad reputation, publicly stirring up trouble at every opportunity. Bill and Sookie continue to worry about them returning to her property.

One evening, Sookie is unexpectedly called to Bill's house to read a person for Eric, a photographer he'd like to use to counter the negative spin vampires have been facing. Bill makes it clear that Eric is ordering her to appear and that she has little choice in the matter. Once there, Sookie attempts to take reasonable control over the situation, banking heavily on the idea that a _willing _telepath is much more effective than an unwilling one. She tells Eric straight out that she is willing to read his photographer, given that she, too, despises biased reporting. Further, she offers to help out in any other way she can to make sure he gets a fair shake in the press. Eric indirectly consents, calling forth his potential photographer, who turns out to be Al Cumberland, the man famous for his photographs of Amish. In fact, he's the very man who took the picture of Eric at the farmer's market. And, Sookie learns, it was Al who'd been arguing with Errol over the use of that photograph on the front page of the Bugle on the day she visited the newspaper office. As a result of that falling out, Al has severed his ties from the paper permanently. Sookie can't get a good read on Al, but to the best of her knowledge, she figures Al is not working at cross purposes.

On the walk back uphill, Bill presses on Sookie the fact that Eric will want to use her again. He won't let that point die and becomes possessive of her, pressing her for sex right then and there. Sookie refuses and asks him to leave for the night. Only Sookie can't seem to get any peace. As she walks up to her car to retrieve her library books, old high school buddy JB du Rone drives by; his headlights reveal the naked body of a dead woman, abandoned in the shallow drainage ditch.

The police who arrive to investigate don't believe Sookie is guilty of murder, and as it would be confirmed later, the victim was drained by a vampire. The woman is discovered to be an ex-Amish woman from Mt. Joy, which draws more criticism toward the vampires. Everyone, including Bill, assumes it's the work of the Blue Ball vampires, and when they are believed to have perished in a fire set by vigilantes, everyone considers the case more or less closed.

At work, Sookie faces more pressure from visitors prying for information about the Lancaster County vampires. She becomes acutely aware of all of the secrets she is hiding. At the end of the night, when Sam makes an unusual request of her—to stay and have a drink with him—she agrees, figuring she could use a change. And that's exactly what she gets. After spending time chatting, he takes a risk and shares his big secret—by shifting into a dog.

Sookie accepts Sam's revelation well, though when he suggests they get coffee together sometime, she feels hurt he waited for so long to ask. She puts him off for the time being. Bill and Sookie have an important conversation too, starting with the topic of Jonas Miller, a young boy killed by an automobile years ago. While Englishers list the date of death as the day his life support was removed, the Amish consider his death as the day he was struck. This leads Bill to wonder about his own soul, and whether parts of him remain the same, in spite of being animated by something else now. Sookie acknowledges she wouldn't want to become a vampire and is relieved he agrees.

Sookie is called back to Fangtasia to help rid Eric of the Amish teens hanging around his club. They've slipped him explicit love notes and have posed for photographs in "fang girl" t-shirts. With the FotS still picketing nearby, it's another recipe for disaster. Sookie is nervous about her performance; she and Bill decide that for her safety and protection, she should take blood from him beforehand.

From the start of her second visit at Fangtasia, one thing that Sookie can tell Eric about his Amish fans is that their behavior is out-of-the norm for Rumspringa, the running around period of Amish youth. While Long Shadow speculates the teens are taking vampire blood, a possibility Sookie considers unlikely, Eric and Pam wonder whether witches are involved with them.

To gather more information about the loitering teens, Sookie reads two of Eric's employees who encountered them. One, Ginger, has either been glamoured or is under a witch's spell. Sookie can get little information from her, and it's not clear whether her memories have been tampered with for reasons related to the Amish teens or something else. In fact, Sookie suspects Eric called her to Fangtasia in part to see what _else _she would turn up. She feels the evening raises more questions than it answers, and as a way of keeping herself out of Eric's far-flung affairs, offers to stop by the next time the teens appear outside Fangtasia. Before she leaves, Eric takes the opportunity to flirt and pry her for details on her relationship with Bill.

As Sookie begins to leave the parking lot, Long Shadow suddenly appears and threatens her to not return Fangtasia. It's clear he's worried she might discover something about him. And then when she arrives home and goes to look for her missing cat, Diane attacks. Before she can drain Sookie, Bill manages to escape his own trap and stake Diane. Sookie is surprised by Bill's coldness toward Diane and shaken by the events of the long night. It's not clear to either of them whether Liam and Malcolm are still alive.

Bill cautions Sookie that Eric will want to use her to discover Long Shadow's secrets. Implicitly, they agree to keep Long Shadow's threat from Eric for the time being. Though Sookie would like to put the whole evening behind her, Bill seems intent on discussing Sarah's former relationship with a young man who turned out to be very controlling of her. Except under extreme circumstances, the Amish stance on marital conflict and family strife leans toward "working it out." Sookie begins to panic, remembering Uncle Bartlett, and wonders what it would have been like if her Gran hadn't taken firm action against him. Bill, noticing the change in her behavior, pushes her to tell him what's wrong, but he backs off when she resists.

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><p><strong><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>**The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

Please note this chapter contains a section parallel to the graveyard scene in DUD, with a Lancaster County spin.

**Chapter 25: News and The Amish Grapevine  
><strong>

The next morning, I woke to blithely blue skies. I paused for a moment to listen for the birds, and when I heard them, I was both reassured and reminded that I needed to get my storm windows installed.

Never mind that a whole headful of churning worries and concerns threatened to pop to the top. On this day off from work, I'd be damned if I was going to let any of them get the best of me. I threw on an old pair of jeans, tight ones with holes that would have scandalized Gran, even for completing house chores. In nonstop motion, I walked straight through the kitchen, out the front door, and up the bank to the newspaper box. Without even looking at the front page, I tossed it on the doormat and headed around the house to the steps leading to the basement. I did a quick check on my tomatoes, noted a few of them were ready to eat, and then started grabbing storm windows and stacking them in the shade. I'd clean them this morning, install the ones that I could on my own, and store the rest inside the porch. Later, Jason would help me with the tricky ones that always needed creative engineering if I offered to cook him a Sunday dinner. But on second thought, I realized I could ask Bill, and took a thrill at the image of his floating high on the east side of my house. There were ways that having a vampire around was handy, and he'd enjoy being able to do this job.

Returning inside, I grabbed a bucket from the porch and filled it with hot water and ammonia. Using one of those thick orange extension cords, I ran the radio through the porch. And then, finally, I started a big pot of coffee.

The work went fast, aided by tunes, caffeine, gorgeous weather, and the task at hand. I scrubbed away last winter's dirt and dried the windows with soft rags until they sparkled and shone. Although they wouldn't last long, I was satisfied anyway knowing I'd get a good start on the season.

Jason had stopped by to measure the smokehouse for lumber, so I poked inside to check whether it was set for him to begin work. We'd have Sunday dinner together on _that _occasion, I realized with a surprising jolt of reassurance as I worked out the menu in my head: pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade potato rolls, and apple crisp.

Meanwhile, I swept and gathered the remaining butchering tools to stash them in the cast iron kettle, which my grandfather had used to make his popular scrapple. In fact, his recipe still scrawled across the wall, the ingredients—cornmeal, salt, pepper, coriander—measured by the handful. Save for the ceiling, the smokehouse was sturdy, with cinderblock walls painted white. Gran and Grandpa used to smoke the hams outside, over smoldering fires of cornhusks, enclosed by flexible sheets of tin. Then one year, an unexpected breeze had knocked the tin loose and fanned the flames, scorching the meat. The very next day, my grandpa had laid the foundation for this building, determined to never lose a ham again.

I thought about breaking for lunch, but the idea of sitting at the kitchen table alone wasn't appealing. So I let my forward momentum carry me straight to the bathroom, where I gave myself the same kind of treatment I'd given my windows. I stepped out of my shower as a buffed new person, in spite of the faint, but numerous bruises that had developed. After dressing in neat, casual clothes—jeans and a light sweater—I grabbed my book bag, purse, shopping list, and an apple and a granola bar.

Of course I had a few destinations in mind, the library and grocery store being top priorities, but mostly I had the urge to drive and let the roads take me where they pleased. Here and there, I passed decorated houses with dried corn husks tied to front porch pillars, pumpkins, and scarecrows, and even a giant blow-up turkey lawn ornament. In one yard, a group of boys dressed as cowboys and police officers chased each other with toy guns. Luke Skywalker brought up the rear, waving his light saber.

Jason and I used to scavenge the fields of some of the farmers we knew, collecting chunks of broken corncobs that missed the harvest. With a little doing, we'd loosen the hard kernels from the cobs until we'd collected enough to go corning, tossing handfuls of the stuff at peoples' windows to make a clicking noise. Sidewalks of the main street in Bird-in-Hand had been sprinkled with yellow around this time of the year, though it seemed less popular now.

Soon enough, snow would turn the fields into chalk rubbings, textured and spiked with broken cornstalks thrusting out of the whiteness.

"I always liked a heavy snow," Bill had told me, "one that buried the land good and solid, especially when it came time for pruning, around February or so. Made it easier to see what you were doing. One time I clipped myself good and hard." He still had the scar to prove it. "Made for a nice, quiet ride in the buggy too."

And then he'd switched abruptly. "Tom isn't pruning hard enough."

I'd thought we'd been verging on dangerous territory. There was no doubt it had been tough on Bill getting so close to his family without being able to do anything himself.

Before long, I knew where I wanted to go, pulling into a dirt-and-gravel farm lane to turn around and head toward Zweizig's market.

Zweizig's hadn't been Gran's favorite place to shop. At one time, she'd gone there for local produce, honey, and deli items when she couldn't get to the farmer's market. But then John Zweizig had expanded, adding a huge greenhouse and a gift shop that catered to tourists. Prices had skyrocketed, and offended by what she saw as Mr. Zweizig's betrayal, Gran had stopped going there altogether. But it was still the second best center for garden plants.

The stone lot was as full as I'd expected on a prime tourist day. In addition, two horse-and-buggies sat in a separate grassy parking lot, next to picnic tables, a tire swing, and a play house. A group of pre-school age Amish children played tag, using the swing as base, their mass of energy vibrating around them. A couple of tourists had congregated in the lot to snap pictures of the scene.

Once I entered the market through the glass door of the greenhouse, I found what I was looking for right away—a mixed fall planter with cabbages, mums, and pansies. On my way to the cash register, I stopped short when I ran into Sarah Compton, or Sarah Norris, rather.

Sarah had a lovely mental picture of Gran wearing her favorite apron, the one with a cherry pattern and a green checkered border with light blue piping and white eyelet trim. Her hair, thick and glossy and brilliant-white—she'd given Gran the benefit on that point—coiled at the back of her head, as she normally wore it, and though her face showed the deep lines of age, her eyes sparked with a lively kindness. Sarah held onto the image for a moment or two, like she was warming a coin between her fingers.

It was like she was giving me a telepathic treat, an unusual occurrence, to be sure. She gave me a pat on the arm, since a hug wasn't possible with the bulky planter on my hip. "I've kept you in my prayers. I'm sorry I couldn't come to Adele's funeral."

She was feeling sad, a thin stream that snaked and dissipated, and thinking about the distance between Honey Creek and Bird-in-Hand. On that day of Gran's funeral, she'd been preoccupied with something. The memory almost formed, but then, in a snap, she flicked the channel of her brain to the planter in my hands with a control worthy of admiration.

"Thank you. I'm heading to Gran's grave now," I explained, glancing at the planter.

She admired it before exchanging more pleasantries—how she was here dropping off Thanksgiving items to sell—before turning the conversation to my Amish neighbors, Bill's family.

"All of that celery," she said, prompting some gossip. There was nothing quite like the Amish grapevine: they spoke of everyone's business freely within their groups, though the intentions didn't seem to be malicious. For the most part.

"Tom hasn't announced yet, I gather?" Amish weddings were sneaky, often cropping up only two weeks or so before the date, traditionally in November and December, after the harvest season. But ever since Sarah had first dropped the news of the abundance of celery in the family garden, Bill had been speculating his son Tom would be published any day now.

"No, no. Tom won't be announcing. There have been a few changes recently. Tom left the community about a week ago," Sarah said without prevaricating. "Took a job working at a mushroom plant near Reading. He got an apartment with a new girlfriend, who left with him, but now _she's_ back already."

My fall planter was suddenly a lot heavier. "I didn't know."

She sighed. "Ja, vell, no one expected it. Came as a surprise to us all. He'd been dating the Yoder girl for so long, we were all expecting the two of them to publish this fall."

"I wish him well," I said after a pause, feeling at a loss.

"No one knows how he's doing yet. It's too soon to tell."

A sense of unease had settled over us, but in another moment, Sarah's thoughts had moved ahead, which prepared me for the next shocking bit of news about Bill's daughter. "He'll be back for Sarah Isabelle's wedding in two weeks."

"_Sarah Isabelle's _published?"

Sarah nodded. She was thinking it had been a good idea to plant that celery for Tom.

Now with two bits of startling news weighing on me, I wanted to plunk my container on the ground; instead, I hiked it higher to prove I could and dredged up all the social grace and poise I could muster from years of lessons from Gran. I didn't have to say anything life-altering, after all. Just something sincere. "How wonderful for them. I wish them well too."

Sarah's thoughts confirmed what I had been thinking, that Sarah Isabelle was just a tad young to be married and that she and her future husband had gotten a head start on their family.

She winked, a gesture I didn't know how to read since she was already moving on. "I'm sure you'll get a wedding invitation. But in the meantime, you should stop by and look at the quilt. I had some other work I needed to finish first, but in the past few days, I've been able to focus on yours."

"I'll come as soon as I can," I promised. We said our goodbyes.

\/ \/

Gran's gravesite still had a newness about it. The raw dirt had been patched with turf, which, I noted with satisfaction, was holding up nicely. But I could still see the rectangular outline that marked where the earth had been cut to accommodate Gran's coffin. The small headstone hadn't arrived yet, and without that anchor, the planter I had purchased looked lonely and disconnected. I tried it in the middle and then on both corners, opting at last to place it where her headstone would eventually go.

"I miss you Gran," I said aloud, kicking my shoes off to squirm in the grass, suddenly satisfied I was accomplishing my most important task of the day.

I sat down, my knees folded with my arms wrapped around them, and breathed in the grassy air, touched with the scent of dry leaves. Around me, tree shadows stretched lankily, prodding the warm caramel light of late afternoon. Peace overcame me as I slipped into that wonderful mental place where thoughts glide through without a snag. I thought about all kinds of things with ease, though none with resolution: how I'd gotten to this point not in one giant leap, but in small steps; what more I could do to help Bill, how the vampires and Amish folks might escape the limelight, what I would do about Long Shadow if I had to go back to Fangtasia. And while I was at it, I wondered who I could invite for Thanksgiving dinner and whether my car needed an oil change.

At some point during my musings, two boys rode by on bicycles, the one in the lead casting a glance at his friend behind him and grinning. Several rows away, a group of two sisters and a brother meandered among the gravestones until one of them pointed and called out, "There she is." _Aunt Edith_. Directly in front of me, a robin hopped-paused-hopped across my field of vision. Somewhere off in the distance, the whir-stop-whir of a weed wacker seemed to echo its movements.

Gradually, as the air picked up a chill, I became aware that I'd been sitting for a long time. I stood, stretched, and brushed myself off. "See you later, Gran. Love you," I said, as though I were just stepping out on an errand. On the way home, I let myself have a good cry.

Hunger took over as soon as I stepped inside my house. Opening up the freezer, I started pulling containers from Gran's funeral. Pork barbecue. Cheesy casserole potatoes. Cope's corn pudding. Banana bread.

While it was heating, I checked my blinking answering machine and found two messages from Sam, one asking if I could fill in for Dawn, who hadn't shown again, and another saying Charlsie Tooten had agreed to come. A third message, from Bobby Burnham, Eric's Day Man, curtly asked me to return his phone call ASAP.

Dinner was ready in minutes, thanks to a combination of the microwave, the toaster oven, and the stove top. I dug into it all, enjoying the home-cooked efforts of my friends and neighbors. As soon as I felt a dent in my hunger, I reached for today's paper and tugged it out of its plastic sleeve.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

There, on the front page, stood Eric in half-naked glory—shirtless, fangs bared—"posing" with his Amish fan club. Apparently the Bugle had no other news fit to print today, because a full page covered snapshots of him: Eric in an empty cornfield, Eric taking a buggy ride, Eric milking the cows, Eric with a hat and suspenders, Eric… Oh, it was easy enough to see he was just a cardboard cutout—probably the very one I'd seen overseeing Fangtasia's souvenir station—with Amish girls and boys draped around him. Somehow, the kids had gotten hold of him and were carting him around town like a traveling gnome.

It was sort of funny.

And it was very bad.

An accompanying article summarized the gist of the recent struggles among the Amish. "A Community in Flux," it was titled. One popular Amish expert from Kutztown University reported his explanation of Rumspringa and the ways that the current "running around" behaviors diverged from the norm, yet one more opinion thrown into the mix. "Adolescence is typically a time for experimentation—the Amish are no different in that way. But we may be seeing more extreme behaviors in reaction to the frightening and tragic killings, as a way of testing the limits and overcoming vulnerabilities in a community once regarded as safe."

I put down my fork, having already eaten too much along with side dish of bad news.

Shame on Errol Clayton, the way he was making use of them, both the Amish and the vampires. I shook my head to clear my thoughts.

I looked at the pictures again. Okay, sure, I could see a picture or two…but a whole front page? At this rate, this story would never die down.

A burning sensation was firing up in my chest. Ugh…I'd made some bad decisions in my life. Today, the worst of them was my diet.

I stood and rummaged through the cupboard over the sink. _Did Gran leave behind any slippery elm? Yes, there it was._ After reading the directions, I set to preparing it, adding a cup of water in the kettle to boil.

Unbidden, thoughts about Bill popped into mind. With this new news from Sarah, I had a thorny problem on my hands. Perhaps, I could _not_ tell him, but I dismissed that idea at once. Eventually, he would find out since he still seemed to have spotty knowledge of his Amish folks. No, of course I would need to tell him the news. The issue was more of _how_ to tell him.

From time to time, Bill had complained loudly about the strict way of Amish living. I didn't doubt there were things about it that had been hard for him, that he'd struggled at times to follow the rules, but I also thought that he had been committed to that lifestyle and as a vampire, sensed a deep loss—with his Amish folks and God, his chance at salvation. If Bill had a way to change his course, I knew what he'd choose, and it wouldn't involve leaving the Amish by _any_ means. Hearing about Tom…I had to think Bill would have all of the disappointment of a father wanting his son to have a better life.

And as for Sarah Isabelle…I sighed heavily. It went without saying. When it came to women, Bill was a traditionalist; he hadn't had any trouble following _that_ particular part of his Amish heritage.

I sighed again, thinking about the delicate balance of the community. Maybe certain things were never meant to mix.

The water boiling, I poured it into a mug with a tablespoon of the powdered slippery elm and added honey. Then, after tasting it, I added a little more honey.

The stuff was potent. Within moments, I couldn't tell whether my heartburn had gone away, or whether the rest of me was just feeling warm and toasty-cozy. _Not bad_, I had to say. No wonder Gran had used it all so quickly.

I took more, at which point it even tasted pretty darn good.

In near complete darkness, I wondered whether I'd see my vampire tonight. I cleaned the kitchen, moving slowly, thick and sweet and ooey-gooey. All was well. I was fine. Damn fine.

When the phone rang, I ignored it, choosing instead to escape the loud jangle by stepping outside. I stretched and wondered where to roam. There was no reason to go to the barn, now that Bobbi was gone for good. Passing the old fallen tree, I hopped up, unsteady on its loose, peeling bark. _Oops._ _Whoa! _Reaching out to catch my fall, I skinned my palms on the rough surface. I picked myself up and laughed lazily; nothing would prick my sense of wellness. What a fine, crazy sensation this was, open wide to the world without a care or concern for anything that might go bump in the night. _Ha! Take that, Liam and Malcolm—if you're still alive—and Long Shadow and…witches, whoever the hell you are. Any placard-wielding fool from the FotS. Who was I forgetting? Eric too. _

I entered the old orchard not by the nearest path, but straight through the shrubby undergrowth, where a crunchy blanket of leaves lay year-round. Soon, I reached the tree Tara, Jason, and I had always considered home base and started climbing, my muscles and bones rubbery and numb, but still sturdy enough to hold my weight.

Scooting out on a limb, I called aloud, "Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

I strained, stretching for the branch just out of reach above me, to see whether I could see the old house from here. Had Bill spent his daytime rest there today? Did he usually light a candle once he rose? Where did he go when he wasn't there?

Suddenly, the branch on which I was sitting gave way with a loud crack, followed by a whole blur of motion, scraping, crashing, and bouncing.

"Oof!"

I landed ungracefully as a tangle of limbs—my own and the one I'd been sitting on, as well as others I had taken down along the way. After a stunned moment, I laughed, realizing I'd actually said, "Oof!" as the air had been forced out of me. I wiggled my toes. I held my fingers out in front of my face and wiggled them too.

_Whoa, look at that. See? I was all right. Better than all right. _

I was disentangling myself when a pair of feet suddenly appeared. Brown loafers. I didn't jump.

"Sneaky vampire. You didn't scare me," I said.

Bill's face—emanating a gentle Red glow streaked with Gold—bent toward mine. "Sookie! Are you harmed?"

"Look at you!" I marveled. My fingertips grazed the faint light surrounding him, so unlike his typical moonlit glow. He still felt cool, but radiated colors dimly. Oh, it was beautiful, like the western sky past sunset. He made me feel happy and warm inside.

"Are you harmed?!" he asked again, concern evident in his voice.

"Shhh," I grasped his arm, scarcely believing what I was seeing, his emotions playing out like a pulsing light show. Somehow I knew what they meant—me and all of my fabulousness. My fabulosity. Fabuliciousness. A giggle slipped out.

"I'm Super. Super Duper." There was a ride at Hershey Park called the Super Duper Looper, the first rollercoaster in our area that looped upside down. For a while, t-shirts had boasted, "I survived the Super Duper Looper," until a scarier rollercoaster had taken its place.

Bill's nostrils flared. "What have you taken?" His fingers dug into my arm, as though he could squeeze it out of me.

I had to admit that hurt. "Stop it!" I tugged away, from his grip, his skin flickering to Muddy Brown. _Naughty vampire. _He was wearing a Grateful Dead concert t-shirt, which was a different, but not a bad look for Bill.

"What have you taken?" he said again, insistently. He'd taken his hands off me; now they clenched by his side, which made the muscles in his arms and chest bulge under the fitted tee. Looking more closely, I noticed the shirt was printed in Fraktur lettering: _Kaercher Barn, 1987. _Huh.

And then I laughed again, because it was just too crazy to believe. All of it. "I took something for heartburn," I explained. My sides ached from laughing. _Hoo boy._ _That was a good one, for sure_. "It's good shit," I added. "I missed out on high school partying, but I'm making up for it now." Another snigger slipped out. _"_With my grandmother's homeopathic remedy."

Bill looked thoroughly concerned, his skin sallowed by Pale Yellow. "Sookie, I'm worried. Something isn't right." He crouched slightly, in ready stance, scanning the orchard around us. "Has someone harmed you?"

I guessed he hadn't heard me the first time. Or he hadn't believed it in spite of my fabulence. My…

I shook myself. "Listen. What I'm saying is true. I took something for heartburn, some old stuff Gran had in the cupboard. It's made me a little…loopy, but it's really all right." I stroked his leg.

Apparently he finally agreed, taking one last careful look around, his nostrils flaring. As he relaxed, straightening to his normal upright position, Pale Yellow pattered away like a brood of baby chicks.

_Awww. _

In only a short time, we'd been through a lot together, Bill and me. I worried for him, didn't want to see him hurt, and wished dearly for him that his existence weren't so complicated.

A spike of Red flared inside me.

"Oh," I sighed, delighting in its excellence. "I want you to kiss me."

Grey Puzzlement crossed his face—Bill was a veritable rainbow of emotions—but having already checked the orchard, he moved to sit next to me. I watched his butt hover and then sink into leaves—and meanwhile I behaved myself and resisted the urge to stick my hand out strategically. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to his chest.

I let myself fall into him. All right, I admit it was very _Woman's Day_ of me, wanting to have him nearer, to keep him in Bird-in-Hand with me. For one more moment, I forgot about our impracticalities. How bad could it be, really, to revel in the comfort of something I'd never had, something everyone else took for granted?

"About that kiss." He jostled me gently.

Tilting my head up toward his, I let him grasp my chin, opened my mouth to his, and met the thrust of his tongue. Why not give it all I had? I sank into the shared hush of our kiss, swirling silently with shades of Red and Pink. On and on it went, until I thought the two of us might qualify as a team for the kissing Olympics. His hand, which had slipped from my shoulder to my ribs, had started stroking, his thumb grazing the side of my breast. And then he pressed in that way that signaled he wanted more.

Maybe I could get another round from my champion kisser. One more before everything changed. I rubbed my cheek against his chest.

"What's this?" he asked, concerned anew.

Judas, I couldn't hold out any longer.

I blinked back tears, or at least I tried to blink them back. This was going to hurt us both one and the same. He scooted to face me, leaned in, and licked one away. He shuddered, but to his credit, he didn't come back for seconds, even though plenty of tears were dripping now. With his patient, calm demeanor—Sky Blue—I had the sense he'd wait here forever with me.

But that was the problem: we didn't have forever together here. And my only high ever had been shot through with Sober Midnight Blue. Briefly, I entertained the idea of saying _screw it_ and letting the two of us fall into what would have come next—very fine lovemaking out in the wilds.

No, he needed to know, and I needed to be the one to tell him, and holding back on him now would be wrong—would serve only my own purpose. I fixed onto the Red coursing through me—not my blood—as my spine straightened, my muscles tensed, and my head cleared, sharp and cloudless.

"Bill," I said, grasping his hand. "I need to tell you something I learned from Sarah today."

"Sarah?" That caught his attention right quick.

I gave him a squeeze. I wished there was more I could do for him. Best to do it without meandering. "Listen. I ran into Sarah today at Zweizig's market. She told me that Tom moved away last week. He took a job working at a mushroom plant in Reading."

His eyes studied my face, as though he really didn't believe what I was saying, waiting for me to cry, "Uncle."

"Tom left," he finally said, his words absent of any emotion.

I nodded.

His gaze faltered.

"Honey, it's true," I said gently, hearing the catch in my voice. "Tom moved out to take an apartment with his girlfriend. She didn't last long—she returned—but he stayed. In Reading."

"He can go back too," he said.

I didn't answer, letting him ponder that possibility for a moment. But we weren't done.

"There's more," I prodded.

Bill's eyes had picked up a bit of a wild look, and I knew he was fighting it, that this news hadn't yet penetrated his heart. I guessed what I would say next would do it.

"What is it?" he said tersely, in that same tone Gran had used when she wanted her bad news straight up, without any flowery verse.

"Sarah Isabelle is published. Her wedding is set for roughly two weeks from now."

"Two weeks?" he asked, alarmed now. "She's too young."

"Two weeks," I said firmly, sidestepping the age issue. I tensed for his reaction.

And then Bill flipped. The Red Glow died, snuffed out by Purple Misery, a thick and unwieldy mantle. He seemed to shrivel under its weight. Standing, he started to run, but then stopped abruptly as though he didn't know what to do with himself. He combed his fingers through his hair. He paced. I felt his trapped instinct to move and flashes of stymied rage. But he had nowhere to escape _to_. No way of changing anything. He was stuck here with the Purple Misery, overwhelming everything else. It draped over him in folded layers, heavier and heavier, growing thicker and more suffocating. My own breathing came in winded bursts, through a strange impulse to suck in enough air for the both of us. "Enough!" I wanted to cry out. This was no good. No good at all.

"Blue and red make purple," I heard my art teacher repeating in my head. I put my hands up to my scalp, wishing I could scrape out the colors.

Bill let out a strangled, choking noise. He fell to his knees, pressed his forehead to my shoulder, and nudged. I stiffened. My heart had softened to the Bill I'd glowed Red with, but I'd lost him to the Purple and all of its complications. For good, now, I thought, my own Purple welling inside. His face—tilted up toward mine—had hardened into a grimace of pain for so much more than the recent state of his family. I'd know this even without my rainbow vision.

And I felt lonelier than ever.

When he nudged me again, I braced my hands behind me to lower myself to the ground. I'd no sooner gotten there when his hands went for my waistband to tug my jeans and panties off in one motion. His knees pressed between my thighs as he unfastened his pants and stroked his penis a few times. Then in quick succession, he reached under my shirt, ripped at my bra, and pushed into me, bracing above me, his lips miles away. I'd been prepared for him earlier, but now the swiftness of him inside jarred me, drawing a gasp.

He set off at once with a committed pace. When my t-shirt slipped down, he simply tore it open. That's where his eyes were drawn—to my breasts, jiggling with his thrusts. But he was determined with his motions, and it didn't take long until my orgasm clutched hard. As if on cue, he groped a breast, sank his fangs into my neck, and joined me. My spasms were only beginning to quiet when a wave of sobs overtook me. They shocked me, the way they came so compulsively, yanked right along by my other release as though they were tethered together.

Bill fell to my side.

"Never baptized," he said. "Neither of them."

\/ \/

I might have slept for a moment then, because the next thing I knew, I was being carried out of the orchard. And I most definitely lost more time because next, Bill was bent over me, nudging me on the daybed. The door to the front porch was open.

"Sookie," Bill prodded me again.

"Hmm?" I stretched

"Eric is outside. He needs your permission to come in."

"Hmm?" I stroked his cheek to see what color I could bring to the surface. At the moment, it was simply his usual pale glow.

"Right now."

"Okay."

"You have to say it."

"Oh. Okay. Eric can come in." I turned to my side and burrowed into the pillow. And then I was being nudged again, and Eric was looming over me.

"What's her problem?" he asked Bill. Eric glowed a little Orange, nothing terribly obvious, which I read as "Determined." I didn't know how I knew, I just felt it inside with my whole body. In my half-awake state, I almost said something about it, but suddenly realizing I was still mostly nude beneath a thin sheet woke me up right quick.

Yes, it was definitely best to keep those kinds of thoughts away from the vampires. I couldn't read their minds, but if they knew I could get a read on them using a homeopathic heartburn remedy…I shuddered to myself. That profound realization was followed quickly by an intense wooziness, one that spun my world first in one direction and then another.

"I'm gonna be sick." I sat up suddenly, struggling to wrap the blanket around me. Neither of them seemed terribly concerned about it, though when I stumbled, Bill reached out to steady me. I would have offered to warm up some blood for my guests, but I needed to hoof it to the bathroom _schnell._

I spent an unpleasant time there, first kotsing up and then cleaning up. I was head-to-toe grimy, with smudges of dirt and scrapes all over my body and bits of debris stuck in my hair. Fang marks marred my neck, too, which weren't Bill's neatest work. Still unsteady on my feet, the best I could do was a superficial wipe-up. Some of those "dirt smudges," I quickly realized, were bruises. I brushed my teeth too, which made a big difference, thank goodness, and picked out the softest, stretchiest clothes I could find.

When I returned to the kitchen, not much had changed. The daybed was still rumpled. A trail of dirt and debris led from the front door, to the bed, to the bathroom. Bill and Eric were both standing, obviously doing nothing other than waiting for me.

"You've had adventures tonight," Eric observed.

"Oh, well, that's Bird-in-Hand for you. Just as exciting as Intercourse."

"Not with me," Eric said matter-of-factly.

That called for a snappy comeback, but the way my head was starting to pound like the world's worst hangover, he was already several steps ahead of one-upping. I thought it best to conserve my energy.

"What do you want, Eric?"

I figured he'd launch into his latest trouble with the press, the way he'd been toted about town like a traveling gnome. But instead, he surprised both Bill and me. "I need you to come read my accountant."

"Why's that?"

"I'm missing $60,000."

There it was again—that sinking realization that I was being used for all I was worth. And on this night, with my throbbing head, roiling stomach, and rainbow vision—Eric was flickering Brown, by the way—I'd had enough.

"Nope," I said. "I'm all set here tonight—not going out anymore. And anyway, I don't think it's your accountant who took the money. If I had to put money on anyone, I'd put it on Long Shadow, on account of the fact that he threatened me not to come back to your bar."

"Is this true?" Eric focused on Bill. "Long Shadow threatened her?"

"Yes. On the night Diane attacked."

I'd have to think about this exchange later, when I didn't have fifty other things on my plate. Eric looked like he might say something else, but I cut him off, since I was already on a roll, and laid it all out on the table. "Also, about those photos in the paper, I've had a thought on those…" (_more like an experience_) "…and the way those Hexenmeisters have been acting out, makes me wonder whether they're using something homeopathic—an herbal remedy or something. They call themselves the Hexenmeisters, so they could be playing around with a spell, too. Using a souped-up homeopathic remedy would make a heck of a lot more sense than vampire blood."

This was Lancaster County, after all. I spoke freely here since Long Shadow wasn't around. I hoped I wasn't just blurting it all out on account of the fact that I was still a little high. I hoped my rationale would make sense in the morning, not having had any time to really mull it over myself.

Bill stepped forward, "Sheriff, she's right. And all of those things are available at Laurel Run."

_Huh? Laurel Run? The new mega smorgasbord, shopping complex Sam and I had visited?_

Bill cast a significant look in my direction, which I didn't know how to interpret. He was pale glow again, with not even a flicker of color. And as for Eric, he looked like something had struck him.

"Let's go," he said to Bill, as he headed for the door.

Bill hesitated. "Sookie." He approached me and put his hand on my cheek. As quiet and colorless as ever. He might have said something else or leaned in to give me a kiss, but Eric was raring to go, jiggling the handle of the screen door. They left me in my dirty kitchen.

I let it all be.

Except that as my head hit the pillow, I remembered the unhealed wounds on my neck.


	26. Country Herbals

**Disclaimer: **The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris; I'm not profiting from this story except by having fun with her hard and talented work.

**In the previous chapter…**On her day off, Sookie throws herself into normal house chores, determined to gain her footing after the last night's scary encounters with Long Shadow and Diane. Later, she goes out for a drive and winds up at an Amish garden center/farm stand to pick up a cemetery arrangement for Gran's plot. She is surprised to run into Bill's sister, Sarah Norris, who drops this shocking news: Bill's son Tom has left the Amish to live with a woman, and his daughter, Sarah Isabelle, is soon to be married at a very young age because she's pregnant.

Sookie leaves the market, wishing Sarah's family well and promising she'll stop by soon to look at her progress on the quilt. After spending time at Gran's grave, she returns home to find more shocking news: a whole front page devoted to Eric "posing" in various places around the Amish community. The Hexenmeisters have gotten hold of his cardboard cutout figure from Fangtasia and are toting him around town and snapping pictures.

With her pile of worries—how to break the bad news to Bill and how to help keep the Hexenmeisters and vampires out of trouble—Sookie indulges in a big dinner of leftovers from Gran's funeral and winds up with heartburn. She takes a dose of Gran's slippery elm, which has a unique effect on her, giving her an expansive sense of well-being and enabling her to read emotions through colorful hallucinations. When Bill finds her wandering in the orchard, Sookie realizes she loves him, and doesn't want to hurt or lose him. But she knows she must tell him the news. Bill reacts strongly, his family troubles balled up with his own conflicted feelings about becoming a vampire. When they have sex, Sookie feels overwhelmed by Bill's sudden and dramatic distance from her.

But the night isn't over yet. Eric arrives, requesting Sookie's services to come to Fangtasia to discover who has stolen $60,000 from him. She refuses at once, knowing she is being used beyond the scope of her agreement with him, and tells him flat out her suspicions that Long Shadow is the thief. Moreover, she reveals that she wonders whether the Hexenmeisters have been using souped-up slippery elm, perhaps playing with a spell, which may explain their out-of-control behavior. Bill and Eric leave at once, under Bill's suggestion that such slippery elm might be obtained at Laurel Run, the mega smorgasbord/shopping complex.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 26: Country Herbals<strong>

When my eyelids popped open the next morning to another beautiful day, I was filled with such a sense of well-being, the events from the night before kept themselves buried deep for a few glorious moments.

Until I moved.

And then as I began to stretch and test out various body parts, the crazy story of my life started fitting itself in place.

_Pounding head._ Slippery elm.

_Skinned palms._ Failed balancing act on the fallen tree.

_Miscellaneous cuts and bruises._ Fall from an upper branch of home base tree.

_Additional cuts and bruises and fang marks._ Fervent sex. Remnants of another evening's vampire attack.

I sat up to a world that spun to a rest. Though I appreciated having straight and steady vision, a gnawing in my stomach told me that the ride was over. So very over.

The house sat quiet and empty. Stubborn. I wanted to shake it until it let out a creak or gasp or thunk. Not even the refrigerator hummed. Gran wasn't puttering in the kitchen. The storm windows I'd installed just yesterday muffled the sounds of the outdoors.

And I missed Bill.

It was much worse than I thought I'd expected. Of course I'd known all along that he wouldn't be able to stick around here forever, hiding so near to his living family, staying out of reach of the press. I'd made my choice to take what I could get when I could get it, well aware that it might be out of my reach otherwise. But knowing this point was inevitable, and experiencing it were two different things.

So very different.

I worried terribly for him. Had he and Eric gone to Laurel Run last night? I tried to ease my fears by imagining him safe and sound in his daytime rest and hoped when he rose, he wouldn't do anything foolish, like intervening with his family. That would go over as well as a truckload of SUVs on the Bishop's front lawn.

Don't get me wrong: I had a lot of respect for this tenacious community, which had survived the enormous changes of the past century. I guessed it could handle an Amish-turned-vampire with a heck of a lot more grace than the rest of the world could. But I had to think they wouldn't ever accept Bill as a member again. And as for his family, aside from their shock and pain of seeing what had happened to him, they'd be in danger too. He had to know that. I could only hope his desperation wouldn't lead him to do anything foolish.

All of these worries rattled around in my head as I pushed out of bed. The more I moved, the more I realized I wasn't in bad shape. Bill's blood must have done some good, though as I dressed, I figured I'd be facing a wardrobe crisis later this morning when I got ready to go to work. Would I wear the collared polo shirt that covered the bite marks on my neck or the long-sleeve boat neck tee that hid the obvious finger-shaped bruises on my arm? And as I was contemplating that decision and using concealer to disguise the scratches on my face, I felt a sudden wave of good fortune to have escaped the past couple nights—Long Shadow's threat and Diane's attack, not to mention my fall out of a tree and rainbow visions in the presence of not one, but two vampires. Though right on its heels, I thought how crazy it was that I'd even been in such predicaments.

On balance, I wasn't sure where that left me on the gratitude scale.

Maybe this was too much thinking for now. I needed to keep moving, like any one of a myriad of Gran's friends who'd had hip replacements: move it or lose it. And on this _early_ morning, the farmer's market topped my list for first time since Gran had died. My plan? To see one loudly-broadcasting ex-Amish man who'd sold Gran and me some powerful slippery elm.

The parking lot was moderately crowded when I arrived. Even the main entrance looked clear—free of Fellowship members, that is. So far, so good. I took the first space I noticed at the front of the building, which meant only a short walk across the graveled lot. I kicked a stone ahead until I lost it under a car. The rest of the way passed in a gray smudge of macadam, stubbed cigarette butts, oil stains, and squashed wads of chewing gum. And then I was looking up and reaching for the handle to the door. It gave way with little heft, like it needed a part tightened.

A gust of air blew over me, and there I stopped short.

The woman on my heels huffed and shoved around me. I stepped aside, overwhelmed by the distinct smell of damp concrete mixed with molasses, cinnamon, and deli meat. Gran could have been next to me right then, her pocketbook clutched close, her list clenched in her other hand, promising waffles and ice cream after our errands. Dammit, I started to tear up.

_Later, _I told myself. Later when I didn't have to go to work or do any vampire-Amish detective work, I'd stick all my problems in a hat, pick one, and let myself have a good cry about it. I headed straight back to Paul's Country Herbals.

Lucky for me, Amos was on staff this morning. He was busy cleaning, though, and I mean cleaning with a capital "C." He'd taken all the items off one shelf to scrub at a sticky spot. I could see his direction by which of the adjacent shelves were spotless, their bottles and packages lined up meticulously. Behind him, he'd left a trail of clean and order.

I stood there for a moment, observing Amos, looking around the shop, and listening. Aside from his maniacal cleaning, he looked normal, dressed in jeans and a pressed collared shirt. Clean-shaven with trimmed, chestnut-colored hair, he was the spitting image of the boy next door. Make that the Englisher next door. I had to give him credit: his mind was a thing to behold. He'd managed to achieve what few people could—near complete focus on his task at hand.

_With a little more scrubbing here…got it! I'll give the whole shelf one more wipe down. What did I do with that dry towel? There. Let's see. Anything expired? December. That one's close. I'll put that up front. Another December. April. April. April. Oops, that's Echinacea. April. April. April. April. _

After only a few seconds of listening to Amos, I was ready to climb the walls. And yet, most notable was that underneath it all, sadness clung. Something else too. Something had changed for Amos since the last time I'd been here.

I shuffled my feet so he'd hear me. He looked up in surprise, knew that I looked familiar, and after a few moments, placed me. Of course, I heard this process before he said, "You're Adele's granddaughter."

"Sookie," I said, nodding. In Amos's mind, Adele was the sweet little old lady with heartburn who'd gotten knocked down and trampled by the mule. He thought she'd been treated rudely by the press, though he'd watched one of the viral videos a few times, now replaying by memory. When I saw it in his head, I flinched. Maybe one day I'd get immune to it, but the problem was that everyone remembered a different angle, treating me to a fresh view every time.

"I'm real sorry that happened to her," he said sincerely, his eyes red-rimmed. He'd lost someone too, or had broken up with him or her. He was picturing a blue bicycle with its wire basket, straight handlebars, a broad, padded seat, a bar on the back wheel for fitting a friend, and then…

Judas!

I hadn't known a bicycle could be used like…that.

In all of my years as a telepath, I've seen a lot of the personal sex lives of strangers and mere acquaintances—way more than I'd ever wanted to see—but never this...this…circus act.

Strangely, it seemed to be an unpleasant image for Amos; I felt the rush of us both leaving his thoughts in the dirt.

Amos had stopped cleaning and was sorely curious about why I'd come to his shop. Since Gran was dead, he'd ruled out slippery elm, a mistake for sure.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"It has to do with my gran, with that slippery elm you sold to her." I figured laying it out there on the table was the best way to go, since if there were any relevant thoughts to be had from Amos, he'd likely think 'em and broadcast 'em.

"Seemed like it did the trick for her, didn't it?" he said. He'd been worried she'd had heart problems, so a very small part of him was glad she hadn't died by heart attack, if she had to go at all, of course.

"Well, that's the thing. I'd say it did more than the trick for her."

"Oh?" he said, perking up with nervousness, along with…excitement? Pride? He'd sworn to himself he wasn't going to mess with the unsupervised experimental magic anymore, but this news that his tricked-out slippery elm had done some good, well…

There was so much in Amos's thoughts, I didn't know where to begin. So I cut to the quick. "I know there's something different about that slippery elm."

More pride and excitement fired through Amos. "I had a hand in that myself." And then he leaned in. "I can tell you're different, or you wouldn't be here asking these kinds of questions about the slippery elm, so I don't mind telling you what type of work I do." _Witch_, he thought.

Of course the word 'witch' set off an alarm bell, what with the way the vamps had spoken of witches. He was lucky I'd gotten to him before Eric had. Maybe Bill had directed Eric toward Laurel Run for that very reason, a thought I had to set aside for the moment.

"You're a witch," I said outright.

"Hey! How did you know? Are you a witch too?"

"Nope. Not a witch."

He gave my answer the barest consideration, to note I seemed open to such supernatural things, and pictured himself burning something in a small dish. "So, yeah. I don't mind telling you I put an energy boost spell on the slippery elm."

"Energy boost?"

"Just meant as a pick-me-up. Your gran looked tired that day she came in here with her friend, and I had always liked seeing her. She always had something nice to say to me in PA German." Amos was recalling my gran with a big smile on her face. He thought she'd taken a special liking to him, which made him want to take extra good care of her.

I thought bitterly about the effects of Amos's efforts. "It gave her a crazy burst of energy," I retorted. Of course I hadn't meant it as a compliment, but Amos took it as one, with that freshly scrubbed smile on his face again. "She couldn't stop moving until it exhausted her."

Amos's deflation was finally beginning, its slow leak collapsing his smile. "Was it meant to make you see colors too?" I persisted.

"Colors?" Now he looked pale. "Did she see colors?"

"I don't think so, but _I_ did."

He squinted at me. "Say," he said, as something clicked and gears started moving. "What _are _you?"

"I'm a telepath." I'm not proud I said this with relish.

Amos's eyes widened. He smacked himself on the forehead. "Ach! I shouldn't assume! I shouldn't _ever_ assume," he berated himself, before looking puzzled again. "What else?"

"Isn't that enough?" I said, offended.

"No. I mean…not enough to make you see colors."

I skedaddled from his head.

Nope. I wasn't going to go down that path. Today was not the day to learn anything else strange about myself or dwell on my shortcomings. I was here for another reason. Plus the two of us having shaken each other, it was time to call a truce of sorts.

"I was hoping you could give me advice or information."

"What's that?" Amos jumped in, eager to help.

"You know about the Hexenmeisters and their running around?"

"Oh, ja. Crazy, ain't not?"

I was extra careful about how I phrased my next question, so as not to accuse Amos. At least not directly. "Could you imagine their getting into anything _like_ the slippery elm?"

"Nah," he said right away. "That's a one-of-a-kind…" He trailed off, startled. He'd been about to say how he didn't know any other witches in the area with the same specialty, and how he'd sold the slippery elm to limited customers on a trial basis, when a name popped into his head. _Hugo_. It shook him as odds and ends assembled themselves in his mind.

He looked at me, knowing I'd heard him. I had to give him credit for understanding my otherness, not something that most humans are capable of doing right off the bat. But then again, it didn't seem like Amos had many boundaries at all. "The poor guy's been back and forth so often. He's in. He's out." There was a pause. "It's not easy, you know, leaving the Amish."

"No, I'd guess it's not." I knew as much from Bill, even though his circumstances were markedly different. Amos had grown up Amish, left at age 18, before he'd been baptized, and had done something different from most folks: he'd never gone back. Though I could tell from his thoughts it hadn't been easy for him, either. Amos's father was a braucher, a faith-healer, who'd been disappointed that he'd had only one child—a boy—because the practice of braucherei, also known as "pow-wowing," typically is passed through the generation between opposite sexes. Amos biggest fault, right off the bat, was that he'd been born a boy.

In any case, Amos hadn't had the inclination to follow in his footsteps, choosing instead something else—a non-Christian-based practice, which was the real kicker to his father. Witchcraft. His story was mind-boggling, the way it passed through his head in such a tidy fashion.

"He bought _a lot_." Amos was picturing Hugo with the Hexenmeisters, the gang to which he'd belonged and still hung out with when they came around on occasion. "I felt sorry for the guy," he explained. "He'd been shunned and had seemed so down-and-out. I just figured he could use help getting over the hump. But now I'm wondering…"

"You think he's sharing?"

Amos shrugged. He'd been proud of his handiwork, but now he was berating himself for inadvertently becoming a supplier of Amish street drugs.

This was definitely a new twist. Was Hugo stoking the Hexenmeisters? Looking for someone to party with? And struggling to keep friends who might otherwise be inclined to abandon him?

While I worked these thoughts out in my head, Amos grabbed a sheet of paper and a thick, smelly black marker and wrote, "Back in fifteen minutes." Then he crossed out the "fifteen" and replaced it with "thirty." He locked the cash register, pocketed the key, and strode toward the door with the sign and a roll of tape in hand. He had one thought in mind. _Hugo._

Amos was picturing Hugo in a workplace setting, standing behind a table.

"Hugo works here?" I asked.

Amos nodded. "When he shows. Selling multi-tool kits. That's how I met him." He patted his own pocket to show he was carrying one of the tools now.

I had little chance to think about Gran as I trotted to keep up with Amos, darting through the crowds, right past the lunch counter at Yoder's. He slowed to wend his way through the permanent mesmerized mass in front of the shammy guy, wearing yet another embroidered NRA shirt, black with gold letters. And then he turned down a side corridor and came to a stop in front of a table advertising Build-a-Tool. _Your Tool, Your Way_, the sign read.

Amos nodded to the man behind the table, who was in the middle of a demonstration, and then gave a quick nod to me. _Hugo. _He matched up nearly exactly with the picture of him in Amos's head. I guessed him to be in his early twenties.

Hugo was not an easy read. He held a red, bulky multi-purpose tool for comparison purposes. "Feel this," he said to the lone man standing in front of him. I could tell by how the customer hesitated before reaching out for the knife that he disliked getting snagged by a sales pitch. He was thinking he'd stopped by only to browse, intrigued by the black case with the slots.

"You want that in your pocket?" Hugo asked. "I had one like that one time that tore a hole clean through my pocket after only a few days."

The customer nodded, briefly weighing it in his palm before handing it back. He thought the sausages from the food stand next door smelled extra good. I barely heard him underneath Amos's blaring observation that Hugo was wearing Englisher's clothes today; sometimes Hugo dressed as an Amish man to put on a show and boost sales.

Hugo had opened the knife with its various attachments: bottle opener, screw driver, scissors, file, pointy thing, another pointy thing, saw, pliers, flashlight, magnifying glass, and plenty of other sharp instruments and gadgets I was sure would thrill Jason. With all of those implements extended, Hugo looked like he was holding up a big claw.

"Which of these tools do you think you'd use?" Hugo asked.

The customer didn't know. He looked to be in his late teens, with medium brown wavy hair that had been smashed under a hat, a thin and patchy beard, and a nose and Adam's apple vying for prominence. His disheveled clothes—wrinkled black concert t-shirt and baggy jeans—hung on his thin body. For the sake of being a good sport, he chose the knife, screw driver, and bottle opener.

"All right," Hugo responded. "So we can get you set up with the small interior axle." He reached into the black kit, which intrigued the customer, watching as Hugo assembled a pocket tool in front of him. He added a total of six attachments, including three different screw drivers, and tightened it using a quarter. At one point, another browser poked his head in, saw what Hugo was assembling, and ducked out, complaining to himself that a pocketknife was a pocketknife and just that, with no need for any other gadgets.

"How's that?" Hugo handed him the custom-assembled tool.

The man took hold of it and nodded, liking its shape and smoothness, and most of all, the looks of that kit. "How much?" he asked.

Hugo dodged the question. "You're not just getting one tool with this kit. You're getting a custom-designed instrument. This small axle holds up to six attachments. But every kit comes with three interior axle sizes. The largest axle allows you to carry up to thirteen tools, for those occasions when you think you'll need more."

"_Twenty_," the customer thought to himself. Twenty dollars would be his limit.

But I could sense his eagerness, and I'm sure Hugo did too. I averted my eyes, uneasy about watching him being worn down. There was a farmer's market bulletin board, layered with postings, next to the door behind Hugo. A color poster promoted Regional Championship Wrestling. One of their wrestlers, minus the crazy eye makeup and cape, looked a lot like Eric. Next to him, arms akimbo, stood a bald man in purple satin pants.

The market's annual fall craft fair was coming up, I noted with interest, and wondered whether Sarah would be here. The Lancaster County Patriots were holding weekly meetings on Wednesdays at 7 PM in the banquet hall. Cabela's, the region's largest single supplier of sporting goods, had a sale last week on wool socks. And the Pennsylvania Firearms Association was urging residents to support Castle Doctrine.

Next to me, two farmers were complaining about price-fixing.

I turned my attention back to Hugo, who had collected fifty-nine ninety-five, plus tax, from his gangly customer. New tool kit in hand, he'd sunk into the crowd.

Hugo looked up at Amos and shrugged, his excitement at snagging a sale waning.

Amos extended a hand. Hugo shook it while casting a quick glance in my direction.

"Hugo, this is Sookie. She's a friend."

Amos was using the word 'friend' not as someone he'd known for a long time, but as a trusted person. I appreciated the nod, but also understood Amos was working out his own guilty conscience.

"Pleased to meet you." I extended my hand.

Hugo hesitated for a moment before shaking it. "You from the Amish too?" He'd gone one step further with his definition of 'friend.'

"No, but I grew up on a farm in Bird-in-Hand." I held onto him for as long as I reasonably could to get a read on him. He seemed only mildly curious and half wary too. I realized Amos and I hadn't come up with any coordinated plan with each other, and now was I questioning the wisdom of just showing up here and saying, "Hey, did you pass out any extra slippery elm?"

Amos took the lead. "Sookie's grandmother used to come by my store. She's the one who…you know…had the accident with the mule."

Hugo studied me for my reaction, and though I hadn't been prepared to be called out like that, my face was schooled in holding steady. My heart did a leap, though.

"I'm sorry," he said on auto-pilot, with little emotion.

"Sookie and her grandmother had trouble with the slippery elm."

He looked at me. "What kind of trouble."

"Along the order of too much energy," I explained, figuring I could skip the rainbow hallucinations.

He had a bit of a smile on his face. "Nah. Didn't give me any trouble. Worked just fine."

"You share with anyone else?" Amos asked.

He shook his head. I couldn't hear what he was thinking.

"I should track them down," Amos added.

"Nah. Like I said."

Still, Amos pushed again. "Not even with the Hexenmeisters?"

Hugo seemed to stop at that, looking at him and then at me quizzically. A flash of something fired in his brain, and then dissipated in a wink. "I ain't running around with the Hexenmeisters no more." He said this with disdain, covering over a background of disconnection. Had he had a falling out with them or was this just about his trouble with the Amish community in general?

"I'd hate to see anyone get hurt," I said.

He laughed somewhat wryly. "I don't think I'd worry."

But I _was_ worried, and at that moment, I wanted to take Hugo by his head to hear what was _really_ going on. I suspected he had a bigger fish to fry and cared very little if anyone else got caught in the kitchen when the oil splattered.

Meanwhile, Amos was shouting in my ear with his thoughts. "_You finished here?"_

"Do you have a card?" I asked Hugo. When he paused, I added, "My brother would like one of these kits." That was the truth, fair enough, though I wasn't sure I'd give Hugo my business.

He pulled one out of his pocket. _Hugo Ayres_. Not an Amish name. Had he changed it?

We all said our goodbyes and thank yous, and in the case of Amos and Hugo, a promise to catch up later. I gathered Hugo would be stopping by for more slippery elm.

"Satisfied?" Amos asked me as we walked away.

He sorely wanted me to be. Twisting my head to look over at him, I felt a slight twinge in my neck. All the lingering doubts and questions. And most of all, my worries about Bill.

No. I was anything but satisfied.


End file.
